Love Is In The Airwaves

Blender Magazine has an interesting Top 10 list in their current issue. And thanks to the power of the Internet and my scruplesless ways of "borrowing" it, I’m reprinting the article here, along with my own comments.

First, the subject matter...

10 Songs You Were Probably Conceived To
Baby-makin' music is all well and good — unless the baby is you.

Yes, Blender Magazine has come up with what they feel are the top 10 songs for knocking boots to – the music that leads to conception. It seems like a silly thing to discuss, since all of the songs are from the early 70’s -- well after many of us were born, and well before many of us were in a position to do such things. (What – no Salt ‘N Pepa on the list?)

Anyway, here’s their top 10 “Night o’ Passion Equals 18 Years of Parenting” songs:

10. Donna Summer, “Love to Love You Baby” (1975)

Hmmm... I would’ve thought it would be “Hot Stuff” or “Bad Girls” instead. I’ve never been a huge fan of Miss Summer, but she’s stirred the loins of many a young man, so I suppose she deserves a spot on this list.

9. Bread, “Make It With You” (1970)

I hate Bread. It’s not just a little dislike or a touch of disdain. Nope – I HATE Bread and their sappy music. I just thought I’d point that out.

8. Boston, “More Than a Feeling” (1976)

This entry surprised me – I mean, BOSTON??? I still find this sound sounding a lot like “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, which I’m sure has served as rocket fuel for children in the early 90’s.

7. Al Green, “Simply Beautiful” (1972)

How can you argue with Al Green? Even if you don’t dig his music, you know that your woman probably does. This one is a “gimme”, fellas.

6. Lynyrd Skynyrd, “Tuesday’s Gone” (1973)

Skynyrd is one notch above Bread on my “ugh” list, which isn’t saying much. I personally don’t find their whining music to be romantic, and puh-leeze – nobody can listen to “Sweet Home Alabama” and find it a turn-on unless their blotto drunk, in which case the passion probably wouldn’t work anyway. So we’ll just fast forward this one.

5. Led Zeppelin, “Whole Lotta Love” (1969)

Zeppelin? Are you serious? T his is a backseat of the station wagon song, at best.

4. Barry White, “Love Serenade” (1975)

See the comments for #7, and then double them here. Yeah, baby.

3. Jefferson Starship, “Miracles” (1975)

I like Starship, but it’s hard to think of them for anything anymore except that crappy “We Built This City” song. It’s like trying to imagine Liz Taylor as a young, svelte pretty girl and only being able to picture the mess she is today. Kind of kills the moment, doesn’t it?

2. Kiss, “Beth” (1976)

I wonder how many people were wearing the Kiss makeup at the time? “So who’s the father of your child?” “I don’t know, but he looked like Ace Freeley!”

1. Teddy Pendergrass, “Turn Off the Lights” (1979)

Teddy is cool in his own way, but this song would only work if your parents had a zebra-skin run, a mirrored ceiling, and a disco ball and/or a lava lamp going at the time. Groovy!

So there you go – 10 semi-okay, semi-crappy 1970’s songs suitable for procreation. Get to it, if you must.

As for me, well I’m going to find my old C & C Music Factory “Everybody Dance Now” cassette. Trust me – it works wonders. ;)

Fashion Rocks!

You know, I may be smart at a lot of things, but fashion isn’t one of them. But I do know what I like, and I also know what is perfectly mockable, which brings us to today’s post.

For instance, I don’t just *get* the functionality/point of this outfit.

Who wants to walk around looking like a human toilet brush?

I imagine the hardest part of this dress/coat/smock/whatever (besides the stares as you walk down the street) would be squeezing through doorways. Or maybe it’d be being hit on by the Ty-D-Bowl Man day and night. “Hey, babe – you can scrub my bowl any time you like!”

But I suppose if life as an anorexic pouty-lipped runway model doesn’t work out, she can always find work at the car wash.

Now, this flapper outfit with the feather?

Deliver me from 1925. (Side note: Maybe she needs to wear a sandwich every now and then...)

Of course, there are two possible comments you can say about this one:

1 -- "Cats... Now and Forever!"
2 – "Ladies and Gentlemen: Stevie Nicks!"

Then there’s this stunning look – perfect for a night in the aviary or an everyday trip to Wal-Mart.

And now you know what it looks like when not just the bird poop lands on your head. (Somewhere in central America, the Chiquita Banana girl is laughing her pineapples off.)

Finally, we have this gem of a lovely hat. (Link says: "Solid!")

It goes perfectly with the scrub brush dress, no? How chi-chi. Why, I can just imagine snobby fashionistas walking around the Upper East Side with this on. (They’d have to walk – they’d never fit in a cab.)

So there you go – the wonderfully weird world of what is supposedly cool to wear. Proof that taste is truly subjective.

Me? I’ll stick with my Mickey Mouse t-shirts and jeans, if it’s all the same. I may not be the star of the runway, but I’m also not going to be the freak of the county, either.

Attack of the Ray Rays

I had to laugh at this Hollywood Reporter review of the new Rachael Ray talk show...

Rachael Ray Show" Potentially Annoying

My only quibble? The use of the word “potentially”. There’s no potential about it. But I’ll digress for now. Here’s some of the reviewer’s comments:

* * * * *
LOS ANGELES (Hollywood Reporter) - Carefully tailored to service the soccer mom crowd racing between work and kids and shopping, "The Rachael Ray Show" is a syndicated daytime talk show-cum-pep rally targeting viewers who are double-parked.

It moves along in energetic rat-a-tat-tat style via a series of manic Rachael McNuggets that casts Oprah's very own handpicked youngster as a whirlwind of hyperkinetic charisma. Indeed, the opening hour depicts the former host of Food Network's wildly popular "30-Minute Meals" as a woman in need of Ritalin to slow it down, modulate her pitch and try a little less hard. Ray has an inherent likability and is certainly easy on the eyes, but she doesn't talk to us so much as screams and she might want to consider taking a more leisurely approach. As it is, it's all she can do to keep from using the adoring audience as her mosh pit.

Breaking from the gate, she skirts the fine line between endearing and annoying and could tip either way.

* * * * *

Funny stuff.

I’m sorry, but I’m not a Rachael Ray fan at all. I’ve spent far too many hours of my life watching Food TV, but I try to avoid her obnoxious self as much as humanly possible. I‘ve always found her attitude to be condescending, her spirit artificial, and her believability/sincerity factor about the same level as Richard Nixon crossed with a used car dealer.

Let’s face it – ‘Ray Ray’ bugs the ‘Snot Snot’ out of me.

But I know I’m not her target audience – she’s patronizing the 30-something minivan Supermom who can not only work full time, but somehow manages to drive the kids to soccer practice, indulge in a mani/pedi, and create a sumptuous 5-course meal, all in the time it’d take for a blended iced double-shot mocha. She’s the woman who gives birth of a Tuesday and runs a marathon on Thursday. She’s the kind of lady who has the time and energy to keep up with Ray Ray’s warp speed.

In other words, it ain’t me. (Besides the fact I’m packing a Y chromosome, that is.) I’m the kind of guy who (usually) takes the slower road. I can’t whip up a miracle supper in between commercial breaks, unless it’s to pick up the phone and order a pizza. I have no desire to run through an entire day in a strange town spending $40 on food and beer (all without leaving a tip). And I refuse to use dumb phrases like “EVOO” when describing something as mundane as friggin’ olive oil.

So sorry, Rach. I won’t be joining in on your 78-RPM party anytime soon. I just don’t think I could keep up without my head exploding in 30 minutes or less.

Potentially annoying. Sheesh.

Smile For the Camera!

Some days are just filled with strange photos. There’s three perfect examples on Yahoo news this morning.

One was this guy, whose reaction was caught on film when Bush said that we’re winning the war in Iraq.

Then there was this nasty pic that’s floated the Web for the past week or so – a boa constrictor that snacked on an entire sheep at once. Can you imagine the heartburn he’s feeling about now?

(And apologies to the Lovely Mrs. G. for posting this for all eternity, who isn’t a snake fan by any stretch of the imagination.)

But my favorite strange photo is this cat and his “hobby”:

Austrian Marco Hort takes in mouth 259 drinking straws during the World Records day at Vienna's Prater.

Now, that’s a neat trick!

They say that a picture is worth 1,000 words. So good luck trying to come up with 3,000 words about these... If nothing else, it’ll give you something to talk about over coffee this morning.

Please Stand By

I’m about to once again mock something that’s important in its own way, but it was carried out in such a convoluted, mixed-up, dumbass way that it’s perfectly mockable. Stick with me, and you’ll understand why.

At about 9:50 AM today everyone received the following e-mail: “There will be a fire drill this morning at 10:00.” A fire drill. Just like second grade. But since I suspect it has more to do with insurance policies than than promoting workplace regression to age 7, so I’ll digress for now.

Now, to help drive home the point, my employer’s building is wired with noisy emergency alarms, flashing strobe lights, and an automatic recording, which comes on every time they have one of these drills (or every time an electrician accidentally cuts the wrong wire, whichever comes first).

“May I have your attention please. May I have your attention please. We have received an alarm in the building. Please stand by.”

So at the stroke of 10:00, sure enough the strobe lights start flashing and the disco dancing begins. Okay, the strobes flash, the alarm sounds, and the recorded voice begins.

This message repeats over and over and over again for the next 5 minutes.

Yes, lady - we’re all giving you our undivided attention.
Yes, we know there’s an alarm in the building. We can hear/see it.
Yes, we’re STANDING BY.

Please Stand By. That’s the key phrase in this snark. Please Stand By. Nowhere does it say EVACUATE THE BUILDING. It just says to Please Stand By.

But being the lemmings that people here are, they caught wind that it was just a drill. "Hey – it’s a fire drill! Let’s all go stand outside in the parking lot and in a large touch of irony, light up cigarettes!"

So off they went, down the stairs and into the parking lot to smoke while the building pretended to burn.

Ah, but here’s the rub. Remember how it doesn’t say to evacuate? Remember how we live in TORNADO LAND? Remember what happened to Dorothy Gale of Kansas when she wandered a little too close to an F-5?

Yes, I know I’m being nitpicky. But the only reason these people bugged out was because of the e-mail telling them that there was going to be a fire drill. If there’d been a tornado outside and they bolted from the building, they’d all be reenacting their favorite scenes from “Twister” about now.

So I finally had to follow the crowd outside, because the geriatric security guards were chasing everyone out the door, despite the fact the grating voice still repeated “Please Stand By”. I got out to our designated spot to stand in the parking lot, watched a few people puff on Marlboros, looked up into the cloudy sky to make sure there weren’t any tornadoes, then turned around and headed back in behind everyone else.

By 10:17 it was over. Another fire drill down for a year. Feel free to please stand by during your regularly scheduled break time. Otherwise, get back to work, you scurvy dogs, you.

Lord, I really hope this place doesn’t ever have a major emergency. We’d all be crispy critters or dropped in an overturned maple tree three counties away.

And how much work would we get done then?

The Amazing Survivor Race

So tonight is the season kickoff of Survivor Cook Islands, and once again I’ll find myself helplessly sucked into the action/drama/24 minutes of commercials for another 16 weeks. Damn you, Mark Burnett! Damn you to hell!

Seriously though, I’m excited to have Survivor back. It’s been a long, dark, dull summer of reruns, which I really don’t have patience to sit through. (Once is enough.) Oh, sure – I had Entourage to tide me over, and there’s always Dirty Jobs and (my guilty pleasure) Property Ladder from cable, but network TV is fresh again, which makes for perfect filler in between my Travel Channel/Food TV/Discovery Channel fetish.

But the big stink with Survivor this fall is the – gasp!- controversial shock of dividing the tribes by race. Oooh, how contentious! 20 people, separated down racial lines! Gee, that’s never happened before!

Personally, I think it’s all a huge publicity stunt for a series that’s 13 seasons old. Anything for ratings, right? And if anyone is going to stir the pot, it’s Burnett. The guy is good at it.

I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about – first off, it’s a TV show. They may call it “reality”, but c’mon – what’s real about it? If this was real life, we’d see more nervous breakdowns and less narcissism.

Second, see my earlier comment about it being a ratings ploy. There’s no such thing as bad publicity in Hollywood, is there? Just ask Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan.

But third, division by racial lines happens in the real world anyway. It’s not P.C. to talk about it, but it happens.

I grew up in a South Seattle neighborhood that was pretty much evenly split – 33% white, 33% black, 33% Asian. Everybody was a minority. So in school people would sit with their friends and group up where I don’t know if it was intentional or not, but if you looked at the group from the outside, you’d see it racially split for the most part. (Don’t ask me -- I’m a writer, not a sociologist.)

Once a year the Seattle School District would hold “rainbow week”, where they’d hang posters in the halls showing all the races standing together, hand in hand, everyone happy and equal. Black, white, yellow, brown, and red. All smiling, all getting along, all mixed together.

And to drive the point home, our teachers would re-arrange our seats in class racially – white kid, black kid, Asian kid, Indian kid, Hispanic kid, start over again. We’d spend a day or two sitting like that, and would smile as needed when the city people would come tour our classrooms to see our harmonious we were, and then slowly we’d drift back to our old spots with our friends.

It wasn’t a matter of discrimination or segregation – it just sort of worked out that way. I had lots of friends of other races as a kid, and I think it made me a better person as an adult. I was exposed to different beliefs and different cultures, and I’m really thankful that I had that opportunity. I’ve seen the world though the viewpoints of others, and it’s a good thing.

So having that exposure, I really feel sorry for the local Iowans who freak out if they even pass someone different than themselves on the street. How much are you missing out on by isolating yourself in your own white bread cocoon?

But Survivor is just TV. It’s not real life, no matter how many times Probst tries to tell you otherwise.

So if you want to see reality, go walk down the street and say hello to everyone you meet. Have lunch in an ethnic restaurant (no, Taco Bell doesn’t count). Take the time to understand the world from a different perspective.

And for God’s sake, if you happen to stumble across an immunity idol, be quiet about it.

Flicks!

Every kid has their favorite candy moment. For some, it’s that ethereally wonderful smell of a whole bag of assorted Halloween candy. (To this day, I still love that scent.)

For others, it’s a semi-nauseating memory of a lesson learned the hard way (i.e. – it’s not a good idea to eat an entire package of Red Vines during a 300-mile car ride).

But for me, my favorite childhood candy moment involved oversized chocolate drops served up in a foil-covered cardboard tube.

Do you remember...Flicks?

Yes – Flicks are back. And I for one am weeping with joy. (Okay, maybe not literally weeping, but I am feeling a little nostalgic, so if I start singing “Memories”, you’ll know why. And with that, the tears will legitimately start.)

http://www.flickscandy.com/

For those of you who’ve never experienced the splendor that is Flicks, they’re fantastically great little chocolate candies that come in a tube. And when I was in 4th grade, they were THE BEST THING you could possibly come home with.

My sister and I were convinced that Flicks were the greatest thing on Earth, and we went to great efforts to score them as often as possible. The best trick was to be sure to answer the phone when our Dad would call and ask if Mom needed anything on the way home from work. Mom would say “no”, and so we’d naturally tell Dad that “Mom said you should bring home some Flicks.” Sure, it was technically a little white lie, but if it got us candy, can it really be a sin?

Flicks were a definite status symbol of the under 12-year-old set in Seattle in the mid-70’s. Kids at school were always jealous of anyone who was lucky enough to score a tube. We used to save the empty tubes and leave them in our desk, in the hope it’d impress the other kids. (It's like owning a big house with no furniture. From the outside, it looks like you're loaded, but inside, all that's left is a faint chocolate scent.)

And possession of Flicks were an instant ticket to the A list: There was one kid who somehow talked his Mom into bringing enough tubes of Flicks for everyone for his birthday – that shot his popularity up to all new levels, unmatched until Bruce got interviewed on the J.P. Patches show and became a quasi-celebrity.

But there was only one possible “problem” with Flicks: Because they are individual chocolates, it was absolutely necessary to keep them on the low-down; otherwise you’d find 20 little hands held out in front of you, waiting for you to share the wealth. It wasn’t like having a Snickers bar, where you’d have a good reason not to let your slobbery next door neighbor have a bite off your candy bar – nope, Flicks were made for sharing, and it was hard to deny passing some out when they were so obviously made for passing out.

Still, if you were out, and your best buddy just happened to have a new tube, it wasn’t such a bad thing to be on the receiving end. So I suppose it just depends on which side of the Flicks tube you found yourself on.

So while it’s not my usual style to plug products on this site (Other than Disneyland, of course), I’m now on the hunt to find me some Flicks. I haven’t had any in close to 25 years, but I’m sure that once I find some I’ll have an instant transformation back to age 9.

I’ll just have to be sure to hoard them this time...

Exxxxxcellent!

Need something to kill some work time today? Okay, here you go!

There’s a new Web site out there where you can make your own Simpsons character. Pick the hair, body shape, clothes, and background. (Hey, for those of you like me who are “artistically stunted”, it’s the easiest “A” you’ll ever get in an art class.)

So here’s my self-portrait, in my Picasso-meets-Matt Groening way.

Ta-da! Or Doh, depending on your point of view and quality of taste.

Of course, over the last 74 years that the Simpsons have been on the air, I’m now officially older than Homer (he’s supposedly 36), so maybe I should be more Ned Flanders-esque. Or Moe. Or Side Show Bob, only with shorter hair.

As long as I’m not a body double for Mr. Burns, I’ll be fine...

"Excuse me, sir - your ass is ringing."

Do you remember a couple of months ago when we talked about the poor sap in India who woke up in jail and discovered that a light bulb had been inserted in his ass? Well, that’s nothing compared to this story...

* * * * *

Cell phones found inside four prisoners

SAN SALVADOR, El Salvador - Cellular telephones were found inside four prisoners in El Salvador's maximum-security prison, authorities said Wednesday.

The discovery was made Tuesday at the prison in Zacatecoluca, in central El Salvador, after suspicious officials took X-rays of each of the inmates, federal corrections chief Jaime Villanova said.

Capt. Juan Ramon Arevalo, director of the prison known as Zacatras, said the gang members had introduced the cell phones, wrapped in plastic bags, into their bodies through their anuses. Authorities also found nine cell phone chips and one charger.

"Each one had a cellular with a number of chips," Arevalo said, adding that one also had hidden a charger in his anal cavity.

* * * * *

I guess there’s something to be said for modern technology. You wouldn’t want one of those early 90’s behemoth cell phones jammed in your nether regions...

Still, it makes you wonder what they’ll find shoved up some dude’s backside in the future. Yesterday: light bulbs. Today: telephones. Tomorrow: A Buick?

Yick.

A Night in Jail -- Or a Publicity Stunt?

I have to admit – I laughed my butt off when I read this headline this AM. It couldn’t have happened to a “nicer” person.

* * * * *
Paris Hilton booked on DUI charges

LOS ANGELES - Paris Hilton was arrested early Thursday for investigation of driving under the influence, police said.

Hilton was arrested shortly before 12:30 a.m. after being pulled over in Hollywood, said police Officer I. Isabella, who declined to give his first name.

Police stopped Hilton because she was "driving erratically," he said.

"The officers observed that Hilton exhibited the symptoms of intoxication. A field sobriety test was conducted at scene, and the officers determined she was driving under the influence," Isabella said, reading a police statement.

Hilton was booked on suspicion of misdemeanor DUI and released, he said.
* * * * *

The only problem? She’ll plead no contest, get a minor slap on her hand, pay a small fine, and that’s it. She won’t go to jail, she won’t lose her license, she won’t be forced into AA meetings, and she definitely won’t be ashamed by her stupidity. (Or at least not for this offense.) They’ll blow it off as if it was no big deal.

Personally, I hope the courts decide to make an example out of her, to show young, dumb girls of all wealth levels that it’s not cool to drink and drive. But the odds of that happening are about the same as they are for me actually buying a copy of Paris’ “album”. So you might as well fuggedaboutit.

But if they do yank her license, I suppose she can always just ask her pal Lindsay to drive her around. As long as she can keep from plowing into another tree from “exhaustion”, the Snotty Millionaire Girls Carpool might be a screaming success!

...or maybe just a scream.

Climbing the Property Ladder of Doom

How did you spend your long 3-day weekend? I spent mine torturing myself.

You see, I spent all day Sunday watching a marathon of episodes of “Property Ladder” on TLC. Yes, I really have no life to speak of.

If you’ve never seen the show, it follows first-time house flippers as they buy a junker of a property and pour their sweat, tears, and life savings (and sometimes beyond) into it, in an attempt to fix it up and sell it for a huge profit as quickly as possible.

Sounds simple enough, right? Buy a beat-up house, pour a few thousand bucks into granite countertops and new tile floors, slap on a coat of paint, then sell that puppy before your next mortgage payment comes due.

Ah, but things rarely go as planned. And this is where my personal torment begins.

I often find myself yelling at the TV (because they can hear me, can’t they?) at these stupid people who jump into the house flipping business without having a clue what they’re doing. It just makes me itch. (I know, I know. It’s their money – not mine. But still...)

What also makes the show fun/painful to watch is the smarty-pants host of the debacles in the making – Kirsten Kemp. Kirsten is an expert in house flips, and she meets the dreamer/owner at the beginning to walk through their plans. They tell her all of their blue sky ideas, she gives them practical advice which they promptly ignore, and then she gives an honest review of their plans (which usually either suck and/or are way outside their budget). Kirsten is usually right, but at least she has the good grace to avoid sticking out her tongue and saying “Nyah, Nyah, I told ya so.”

Kirsten’s greatest asset to the show though has to be her reaction shots. When someone tells her that they’re only going to spend $1,000 to remodel the entire kitchen, she’ll give the camera a double-take that any vaudeville comedian would be proud to do. Her eyes will bug, her head will snap, her jaw will drop, all to appropriate sound effects. I’m telling you – if Kirsten was drinking a glass of water at the time, you’d have the world record spit shot. She’s just that good.

Anyway, a majority of these people buy these clunker houses (which are usually in hard-to-find areas such as SoCal) for big bucks, then try to do all the work themselves for as cheap as possible, even though many have never done any type of construction or have dealt with contractors before.

So they’re filled with blind optimism in the beginning, dreaming of making a hundred grand in 8 weeks, and yet they’re shocked – SHOCKED! – when their money runs out, their contractors don’t show up, and they discover mold or rusty pipes behind the walls because they decided to save a couple of bucks and skip the home inspection. They then fill the place with cheap appliances, make color choices based upon their own (bad) tastes, and overprice their houses, and wonder why their house won’t sell.

Gee, imagine why I have an ulcer brewing over this?

One couple tried to solve their “little mold problem” with a sponge and some Clorox. A guy didn’t replace the sink in the utility room – he just spray-painted it copper. A lady “listened” to her house talk to her, and ended up painting it the same shade of yellow as you’ll find on a YIELD sign. Another couple priced their house $100,000 over what all the other houses around were selling for, then refused to lower their price because “they felt it was worth it.”

It makes my butt twitch, I tell ya.

I personally would never try flipping a house, mainly because I have little to no interest in building things like that, and my favorite solution to home repair issues is to call someone – my father in law, a professional, etc. The Lovely Mrs. G. says she wouldn’t mind trying it, but as for me? No thanks. Besides, I’m afraid of what Kirsten’s spit takes on my construction would look like. Her head may very well snap clean off.

Still, it’s fun to watch other people make asses of themselves in the rush for money. And yes – occasionally someone is able to pull off a pretty nice flip and make good money at it. But not often enough to settle my nerves.

So next weekend I’ll have to go outside and get some fresh air instead of watching a TLC marathon. My health will be better, and maybe while walking around the neighborhood I’ll spot a house for sale that with just a little bit of work...

...Nah.

What a Way to Go

Okay, show of hands. (Be honest!) When you first heard that “Crocodile Hunter” Steve Irwin was killed over the weekend, wasn’t your first thought “Did a croc get him?” I know mine was.

Don’t get me wrong – I feel bad for the guy, and twice as sad for his wife and kids. But you had to figure that one of those ‘biggun crocs’ finally had enough of being his 3-ringed circus star, and revolted in a way that only a set of humongously powerful jaws can do. Snap, snap, bye-bye baby. Just like the Gingerbread Man.

But no – it was a freak accident with a stingray, which I suspect has a whole lot of people out snorkeling at Stingray City in the Cayman Islands a little bit nervous this AM. The Lovely Mrs. G. and I swam with stingrays in Grand Cayman a couple of years back, and we both came away thinking they were fairly docile creatures, with the only thing really on their little jelly-esque minds was where to find some free lunch. As long as you didn’t step on them, they were pretty gentle. So it must’ve just been a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So I’m sorry to see Steve go like that. I wasn’t a huge fan of his show, but he really did a lot to present nature to kids who probably wouldn’t ever have a chance to see a giant crocodile in the wild. And if you can say anything good about his passing, it’s that he went quickly, and he died doing what he loved. Not too many people will meet their maker and be able to say that they went out on top.

Still, given the choice of being shivved by a stingray and dying peacefully in my sleep, I’ll take the eternal nap any time.