Cache and Carry

Hoarding: the excessive collection of items, along with the inability to discard them.


I am a hoarder.

I don't collect things. Tangible things, anyway. The hallways of my house are not cluttered with stacks of newspapers or magazines. I don't have bags of dryer lint stashed in a closet. No balls of rubber bands, baggies of twist ties, or an endless chain of linked paperclips. The things I collect are taking up space in my head. And I think it might be turning into a problem.

I came to this conclusion the other day while grocery shopping. Walking down one of the aisles, I passed an elderly woman and a voice in my head said, "Wow, that woman looks exactly like the grandmother on The Waltons." The tone of the voice was so matter-of-factly banal, offering no more reaction than recognizing water being wet. Yeah, I watched The Waltons as a kid, but that was in the 70's, which meant my recognition of that character had lodged itself somewhere in my head for almost forty years. But hearing that in my head wasn't the worst part. Another voice in my head chimed in, adding, "Ellen Corby."

I also have a brain cell in my
head that looks exactly like
John-Boy's mole.

The human brain weighs approximately three pounds and it contains roughly 100 billion brain cells. That's 100 b-i-l-l-i-o-n. As I began to think about this, I grew concerned about how much I'm pushing that capacity by housing non-essential trivia, like Ellen Corby, inside my brain. Perhaps her arthritic grip on a brain cell had prevented some other significant item from being at the forefront of my life. Maybe my failure to be my high school's valedictorian can be traced back and attributed to Ellen Corby blocking a correct answer on a test in middle school, giving me a lower grade which damaged my confidence and thereby destroyed my academic ambitions. Ellen Corby could be why I have to measure twice before I cut once. Certainly Ellen Corby must be part of the reason I have to write down all of my Internet passwords.

To be fair, it can't be all Ellen's fault as her name can certainly be interchanged with any number of random things cluttering up my head. Things like "chad." When I was a kid, Chad was a person's name. I'm using a brain cell to hold onto that. Then I learned it was a country in the middle of Africa, so I had to store that in my head, too. Then I learned it was also that piece of paper punched out of a ballot...and that they can hang! That's two more brain cells for the same thing! And for what? I don't know anyone named Chad, I have no plans to travel to Chad, and bits of paper punched from paper already have a name. They're called confetti. They don't need another name!

I also know what an aglet is. An aglet. With the exception of right now, I'm not ever going to use aglet. Oh, sure, I might look at the tip of my shoelace and somewhere in my deep recesses of my mind there's an association between what I'm seeing and what it is. But I can't recall ever hearing that word echo off the inside of my skull and pop out of my mouth. The only people who use aglet in conversation are people who want to make themselves seem smarter by saying shit like "aglet."

     "What's wrong with your shoe, Chris?"

     "Oh, the end of my shoelace frayed, Ted, and now I can't thread it through the 

       hole."

     "You mean the aglet broke?"

I don't know about you, but I'd want to whack Ted on the back of the head with a rolled up copy of his Brookstone catalog for saying that. Ted would be the kind of guy who actually owns an aglet tool to fix his broken aglets. He's as useless as wet tape if you need a pair of pliers, but he's got an aglet tool you can borrow. No man with normal levels of testosterone would walk up to another man and ask him if he happened to have an aglet tool, let alone ask to borrow it. That's because men don't replace aglets. They light a match and fuse the end of the lace so they can lace it through the lace hole. Then they tie their shoelace so they don't trip over it on the way to the shoe store to buy a new shoelace. So except for those pretentious asses like Ted, aglet just sits in the head taking up space. Forever.

I have a theory that the accumulation of useless crap over time is why people have difficulty remembering things as they get older. There's just too much blocking them from reaching the stuff they want, plus it takes too much effort to get there. It'd be nice if grandpa could dig deep enough to remember where he left his 1,000 shares of original Apple Computer stock. Unfortunately, all you can get out of him now are the same four or five stories he's told every time you've visited him for the last fifteen years.

I wish there was a way to manage what goes into my head and stays there. Unfortunately, there's stuff that goes in that I don't want and I can't do a damn thing about it. The closest thing I can think of is something like a lobotomy. But I don't want to empty the theater, I just want to ask the few assholes disrupting the show to leave. So I guess I'm stuck with chads and aglets and Ellen Corby and all of the rest of that stuff that are red wine stains on a white carpet. They may fade over time, but they'll never fully disappear.

I just hope I don't end up blaming Ellen Corby for my inability to remember how they got there.

Cookie Cutter

Connecticut College, in New London, Connecticut, recently released the results of a study that found Oreo cookies may be as addictive as cocaine. According to reports, hungry rats were put inside a maze with two options: Oreo cookies or rice cakes. The study indicated the rats spent more time in the Oreo side of the maze than in the rice cake side.

No shit.

I've eaten rice cakes. I've eaten Oreos. I can pretty much tell you that given a choice, I'd spend more time eating Oreos - or any other cookie - than eating rice cakes. In fact, if researchers were to conduct this test on me, they would have the added bonus of being able to ask me exactly why I'd prefer to spend my time eating Oreos over rice cakes. I wouldn't even have to say anything, either. I'd just hold out my hands - one with an Oreo in it; one with a rice cake in it. And when they reached for the Oreo, I'd pull it back and give them the rice cake and say, "You tell me why, Einstein."

There was a second part of the study, the part where researchers wanted to determine if the rats would prefer injections of cocaine over injections of saline. Hmmmm...wonder which side the rats liked better?

What the researchers did after that would have made more sense coming from a middle school science fair than from an institute of higher learning. They concluded that Oreo cookies, like cocaine, contain an addictive property that stimulates a pleasure center in the rats' brains. Through that, they suggested that the same stimulation process worked similarly in the brains of humans. Because rat brains are so similar to human brains, a commonality that was likely deduced by a college undergrad who saw rats and humans digging through trash dumpsters for something to eat.

I, for one, don't understand why the results of this study are newsworthy. There's no scientific breakthrough here. It's long been known that human nature dictates humans will respond to what is pleasurable over what isn't. That's why people hang out at bars, listen to certain types of music, like or dislike outdoor activities. You don't need to run rats through a maze to understand Oreos and cocaine can be addictive. All you need are some hungry people and drug addicts.

What the researchers should have done is compare Oreos to shots of cocaine to see which one is more addicting. Instead, they took the easy way out and drew a conclusion based on a simple observation. You could do a comparative sampling of any two things and draw the same conclusion. For example, if you gave me the option of going to church or a whorehouse, you'd likely find me putting my money into a hooker's hand instead of onto a plate being passed by the parish usher.

For the record, I've never been with a prostitute, nor have I ingested cocaine. But I have been to church, and that's a lot like eating a rice cake, so my comparative analysis concludes, therefore, that hookers are like Oreos. And since I like Oreos,...

A Trail That Reached Its Peak

One of the great advantages of living in the San Francisco Bay Area is being afforded the opportunity to get out and enjoy nature, whether in the foothills surrounding the Santa Clara valley or along the sandy beaches and bluffs along the Pacific coast. I recently decided to get out and spend a portion of my day hiking, and chose the trail to the top of Mission Peak near Fremont as my goal. It'd been several years since my first ascent of the roughly 3 mile, 2000 foot climb. I remembered it to be steep and challenging compared to other trails around the valley. I knew the day's temps would be in the upper 80's, and with little shade on the trail, I'd have to be prepared. Hat (check), plenty of water (check), lunch (check)...yeah, I was prepared. Prepared for me, but not for everything other than me.

Here's a partial description of the trail as presented by the East Bay Regional Parks District, who maintains the trail and some of the surrounding property:

"Rising steeply to the east of the city of Fremont, Mission and Monument peaks form a dramatic backdrop to the South Bay. The determined and conditioned hiker who reaches the top of Mission Peak will be rewarded with views of Mount Hamilton to the south, the Santa Cruz Mountains to the west, Mt. Tamalpias to the north, and Mt. Diablo and the Sierra Nevada to the northeast."

And I got all that...along with a trail intermittently marked with dog cairns, trash of every kind, signs and posts decorated with graffiti and stickers, and off-trail shortcuts plowed into the hillsides at every switchback. Oh, and let's not forget the group of hikers who apparently don't understand that playing their music loudly doesn't encourage what little fauna there is to remain within the sparse flora. Note to the Asian trail dancers: burrowing animals don't like Gangnam style, they're fans of Kenny Loggins (look it up). And of course, there are also those who believe that breathing isn't enough, that words must always accompany exhaling. Always.

My disappointment at the condition of the trail increased with the altitude. I was one of three people who stayed on the mapped trail to the top. At one point, I counted roughly 35 different people on the peak. That meant that more than 90% of the "nature lovers" who completed the hike when I was there cut upward along an existing scar of unofficial trail to do so. And what of that view reward touted in the trail description? Well, it was a clear day, and I got to see all of those Bay Area landmarks. That beauty was marred by the Mission Peak rocks emblazoned with graffiti, because it's important to let everyone else on the peak know that at least one of the God-knows how many John Does "wuz here" and that he may still love Jane forever. The surrounding area was also littered with trash, mostly empty water bottles left by people who don't realize an empty bottle is easier to carry because it weighs less than a full one. And sure, there's a trash can nearby, but who has the strength to lift the lid after such an excruciating hike, right? Besides, I have other things to carry down the mountain, like my uninhibited contempt for everything that isn't me.

They should post signs telling
people not post shit on the signs.

I can't put the blame entirely on the EBRPD. They've put up signs (that people don't read), placed trash cans and dog shit bag dispensers along the trail for hikers to use (that they don't), and erected fences to discourage off-trail cutting (that people go around). The main trail is well-maintained, and wide enough to accommodate hikers and bikers, yet both still feel the need to blaze their own trails. Outside of the societal culture that allows this type of behavior, I can't pin it on being a cultural thing as the racial makeup of the trail use misuse was varied. I can't blame it as a maturity thing as the age range for the trail use misuse was varied.

To me it's a right and wrong thing, which makes it nothing more than a disrespect thing. It's disrespectful to the land. It's disrespectful to the people who put the effort into preserving

The fence is as wide as the actual trail.
Apparently it's not wide enough.

a place for you to get away from something, not get away with something. It's disrespectful to people like me who don't give a fat rat's ass that you "wuz here" because I'd prefer that you "wuz" and I didn't know it.

So how do we fix it? Well, as current attempts have obviously failed, I see a need for some creative alternatives. Of course, my initial ideas like off-trail booby traps and random sniper days tended toward the extreme. Your dog shouldn't get blown up because you were too stupid to keep it on leash, nor should you risk taking a round for stepping into the bushes to take a leak. So the best solution I could come up with is to close the trail. Shut it down to the parking lot. Put up a big sign in all of the registered voting languages explaining why it was closed and when it will open. First time a month, then two months, and keep closing it until people get it into their heads that if they don't take care of it, they can't use it. What? You're a taxpayer? You say this violates your rights to access land that your taxes paid for? Yeah, you paid for it, but guess what? You don't own it. You're paying to have it managed. You may not be part of the problem, but unfortunately you're going to be part of the solution.

I wrote an email to the East Bay Regional Parks District after my hike. I explained how disheartened I was at the condition of the trail and how it saddened me how people apparently just don't give a shit about resources and preserves and the luxury of open space. (I'm paraphrasing, I didn't actually write "give a shit.") I also offered my suggestion that they close down the Mission Peak trail. I haven't heard back from them as of this post, but I'm sure they won't consider closure. My guess is they don't want to deal with public outrage. But maybe a little outrage would be good so when it opens up again - more likely opens for the second time because people are dense - the public will start treating the land like it has some value.

Happy Birthday, America!

(Ed. note: Today being a holiday, I gave the editorial staff the day off. So in essence, I'm wire-walking without a harness.)

Birthday bike ride. It's never too late to get back into shape.

Yeah, getting older is tough, and you're starting to look it. A bit out of shape, but you're on the right track by making the decision to exercise. Why not? You've got a council on fitness and nutrition. That's like having a staff of free personal trainers. And doing it on a bike, too! And one that wasn't made in China!

It doesn't take a Senate subcommittee to tell you that starting an exercise regimen needs care and consideration. Here are a few tips:

Pace yourself - That's years of government pork you need to work off. You can't turn that waddle back into a swagger over night, so take your time.

K.I.S.S. - Keep It Simple, Sam. Like we said, the bike is a good start. You need to get your cardio up before you engage in more strenuous activity, like raising taxes and running for re-election. A flat biking route is probably best, too. Congress can't agree on shit, so any thought about changing gears in the middle of the ride is out.

You are what you eat - Loading on carbs doesn't mean having another beer. No secret that you've been biting off more than you can chew. Time to trim the fat from the diet so the diet doesn't go to "waist." Sure, we all make excuses to feel better about the crap we eat, but the days of "catsup is a vegetable" are over.

Clothing optimal, not optional - Dressing for the exercise is a must. Clothes that breathe and wick are essential, so wear the proper attire for the activity. The biking outfit, while in your current condition is not flattering, is a good choice for biking. But those socks and shoes? We'll keep working on it.

Anyway, we hope this exercise thing works out for you. As usual, we mailed your gift and it should reach you some time before April 15. Happy birthday!

Words, Part 6: The Deen of Languages

Blogger's note: "Words" is an ongoing feature in which I take a look at special qualities and misrepresentations of the English language, how much fun it is to play with its words, and why it reigns as one of the hardest languages to master.


Paula Deen, the Southern Belle of culinary arts, said the word nigger. That's right. A white woman born and raised and living in Georgia since the late 40's testified in a court appearance that she said it. It occurred, she explained, when she was a bank teller and a black man robbing the bank had a gun to her head. All things considered, I'd have to give her a pass on that one. She also stirred the pot with other questionably racial things she's allegedly said over the course of her life. She has to live with that, whatever came or comes out of her mouth. I neither condone nor condemn her.

The Paula Deen cookware collection,

available in a variety of colors.

Except for the kettles.

As a result of the court testimony and subsequent bad apologies from her, the Food Network chopped Ms. Deen from their programming. The network's refusal to continue Ms. Deen's contract created public outcry against the network, the consensus being the network over-reacted. However, the network has an image to maintain and it decided to distance itself from the incident. They are the boss, and they have that right, as does any other business that finds itself in the same position. I neither condone nor condemn them.

What bothers me about the controversy is how it was reported by the media, in particular their use of "the N-word." By that I mean, literally, "the N-word." The media, in their need to sensationalize the "news," presented it in that manner, as "the N-word." The media, I assume, was trying to address what they considered a sensitive subject in an inoffensive manner, which is bullshit and cowardly. Refer to it as a racial epithet or slur then, and leave it at that. Otherwise, put that disclaimer up - you know, the one they use every time they find the ratings balls to show pictures or videos that aren't suitable for children or may be disturbing to some viewers - and say it. Because when it comes to using words deemed offensive, speaking or writing the word by its first initial does not allow you a pass for not saying it. If you say part of it, MFer, you said all of it.

I think by now society as a whole is familiar, if not immune, to this word to the extent that there shouldn't be a need to abbreviate it. Ironically, it's been infused into popular culture by the very people who should be offended by it. It's been overused, diluted to the point that it should not be allowed to maintain a taboo status, at least no more than any other word. That's not to say people should feel free to run around injecting it into conversation without concern. The word certainly does not have glamorous history, and may indeed be offensive when used inappropriately. But it doesn't make sense that it's okay to say nigger in a song, or repeat it in front of a movie camera in excess of an estimated 100 times as was done in the movie Django Unchained. (That movie, by the way, grossed over $162 million, which I think is way more offensive). Nor does it make sense for one segment of society to be allowed to include it in its vernacular, yet punish another segment as if it committed a trademark violation.

Content and context. A word, any word, only has the amount of power one gives it. The word "Jew" can carry offense, too, but we don't call it "the J-word." This blog has a stated belief that there are no bad words, only misused words, and hiding a word behind a hyphen with a wink that "you know what I mean" is misusing it. There are other educated and responsible ways of not saying a word you're uncomfortable with without making me say it for you.

As for Paula Deen, she may lose some business, with dropped endorsements by companies like Target or Sears, where you can still get your favorite Nas CD with racially explicit language. No doubt this will turn out to be a bumpy road for her, but I can't see her hanging up her apron and stop cooking. She seems to have a lot of supporters, both black and white, and should rebound over time. She certainly has the money to sit back and wait it out. Those who found her behavior inappropriate have the right to step away, just as those who saw no intended harm have the right to promote her career and see her back on T.V. in spite of the decision by the Food Network and not out of spite for it. Perhaps it will be hosting another cooking show on another network, or maybe as a product spokesperson.

Just as long as it isn't Cracker Barrel.

Graduation Daze

Bill Graham Presents…a few hundred

more people out looking for jobs.

I recently attended my daughter's college graduation. (Blogger's note: Woo-Hoo!) Let me tell you, there's nothing like the building excitement in anticipation of seeing your child walk across the stage and hearing their name called. Okay, there is something like it. You know how when you're on a long drive and you had that large cup of coffee and there's nowhere to pull over to pee? You know that feeling as the pressure in your bladder seems to be continually growing, and you keep fidgeting in your seat hoping to find a position that will make the discomfort subside? And when you finally find a restroom, and you get to the door and it's locked? And you have to find new muscles to keep from peeing yourself? Yeah, graduation ceremonies are like that, too. For the first hour and a half we took a slow, bladder-filled drive through the obligatory class addresses.

Public speaking is like drinking. If you carry on too long, nothing you say will make sense and even you won't remember half the crap you said. The worst part about listening to a long speech is when it sounds like it's over, but it turns out it's only the end of a paragraph. Psych! Granted, there are a few exceptions as occasionally a speaker will craft 10 or 15 minutes of golden prose, or some well-known figure - an actor or politician - will add notoriety to the event. Or maybe even someone gets up there who can actually speak. Otherwise, it helps as a listener to have mastered the art of maintaining a balanced, upright sleeping position so you don't end up using the shoulder of the person next to you as a pillow.

First up, the school's administration. The university president kicked off the show with a little song and dance that acknowledged the efforts of each and every student, and praised the kids' commitment to the time and hard work and late hours required to achieve their individual successes. This was followed by the caveat that leaving the halls of academia is only the first step, that there is still more hard work to be done, more obstacles to overcome, mountains to climb, levels in Black Ops 2, etc., ad nauseum. But..."the faculty and administration of (insert school name here) have empowered you with the ability to meet the demands of the world and conquer them." This is the school's disclaimer, similar to the "past performance is not an indication of future earnings" admonishment your stock broker gave you. That's right, mom and dad. If your kid tanks in the real world, there will be no refunds. Then came the closing, the gratuitous tip of the mortarboard to the parents for the checks they wrote sacrifices they made for their children.

Grainy Father/Daughter Coincidence: A universally accepted practice in commencement speeches is to include a movie or book quote as a way to time stamp the period of a particular graduating class. This year, a new Star Trek movie was released, which meant the quote du jour was the "boldly go where no one has gone before" tag. The movie Hangover Part III came out this year, too, but apparently nobody had the balls to use Mr. Chow's "So long, bitches" line, which I'm sure a majority of students would have found to be more on point. Coincidentally, my shining graduation moment came in 1979 when another Star Trek movie, Star Trek: The Motion Picture, was released. If any Trekkie geek gave a commencement address in the late 70's that included Spock's "Why am I here? What was I meant to be?" speech, or any other line from that movie, they would've gotten their ass kicked. Again.

Next up to the podium were two guests being given an Honorary Doctorate Degree of Letters. An honorary degree of letters is generally awarded to someone who has distinguished him/herself in a manner befitting the image of the institution presenting it. It comes in these forms: as an academic thank you card for recognition of the individual's contribution of expertise to the advancement of the university, as a lifetime achievement award for the celebrity who is speaking in lieu of an appearance payment, or as the "GED of higher education" to celebrate the person who barely got through high school - if at all - but slogged their way to some level of prominence without earning a real college degree. The last one serves as a harsh reminder to the parents in the audience that they spent $60,000+ to educate a kid who odds are won't realize the same level of success the speaker achieved after dropping out of school at 20 and scrubbing toilets for minimum wage.

The HDDL speeches take on the whole follow-your-dreams theme, which includes these keys to success:

• Don't let anyone tell you you can't.
• The only closed doors are the ones you don't try to open.
• Failure is not an obstacle, it's an opportunity.
• The only true competition is within yourself.

Wow. Thank you for your 20 minute diagnosis on how to succeed in life, "Doctor."

Finally, the undergrad valedictorian and the graduate valedictorian spoke. One got to tell everybody what a crappy student he was, no focus, no direction, until that special teacher found the hidden quality that changed his whole outlook on life. The other got to tell everybody how crappy his life had become, no drive, no future until he decided to put the lives of everyone close to him on hold so he could go back to school, which changed their whole outlook on his life. Then both attempted to make some sort of peer correlation which, frankly, is ridiculous because they are valedictorians, for Pete's sake. They are better than everyone else and therefore have no peers. (Go ahead, ask them.)

So other than giving me fodder for a blog post, the only impression any of the speeches made was left in the shape of my butt cheeks in the seat cushion. The life/academic pictures painted by these honorees were self-portraits on an over-stretched canvas and set in recycled frames. I didn't need to listen to 90 minutes of other peoples' Oprah moments, nor did my daughter need to listen to 90 minutes of "life's not fair." As a responsible parent, I already passed that nugget of disappointment to her at a young age, and then reinforced it as needed.

My kid can kick

your kid’s ads!

Finally, I got to experience that glorious moment when my daughter stepped upon the stage and her name was announced, which meant I could get up and leave. No one said I couldn't. My daughter, on the other hand, was told during rehearsal she had to stay to the end of the ceremony. But she's educated, and has my genes (So long, bitches!). I couldn't be more proud of my daughter and all she's accomplished. I've watched her struggle, overcome and succeed, so I know what she's capable of. And even if the world bends over and takes a huge shit on her, I'm confident she'll come out ahead. She's got a BFA in advertising, so her "Will Work For Food" sign will be masterfully crafted and prominently placed.

The Token Post

I've been asked on more than one occasion why I don't post blogs more frequently. This makes me feel good, knowing I have an audience that appreciates my humor/wit/sarcasm/etc. It also saddens me because as much as I'd like to post more blogs (blog more posts?), there's an element of timing I find necessary to impart my humor/wit/sarcasm/etc. upon the readers of Grainiums. It's been a tough year for Grainiums in that respect. My goal for posting has gone from at least twice a month to whenever I can, with "can" more often than not being influenced by outside events.

It seems like society has been overtaken by a classroom of weavers making hand baskets to take us to hell in. Mass shootings in schools, mass shootings during parades, mass shootings in churches (however you want to read that is fine). There was the bombing at the Boston Marathon, family members stabbing each other, neighbors holding neighbors hostage, Kim Kardashian's pregnancy... With all that's going on, it's kind of difficult to shoehorn a bit of social irreverence (or irrelevance) into such a narrow window of opportunity. Plus, it's hard to find eyes to poke sharp sticks into when all the eyes are focused in other directions.

It's hard to say why society is in the state it's in. Clearly there are high degrees of unrest, low degrees of self-esteem, and moderate degrees of global instability. Religious leaders and their followers will swear it's a lack of faith in their particular god. Sociologists will point to deterioration of the family structure and a social disconnect caused by our dependence on the Internet (except here). Psychologists will irrationally determine we don't have an emotional grip on our day-to-day existence and that we need more drugs. Educators will blame parents. Unions will blame employers. Old people will blame these kids today. Everyone's got a finger to point, yet very few realize when you point a finger at something you have three fingers pointing back at you.

When I point my finger at you and say,

“You’re awesome!”, there are three fingers 
pointing back at me.

We need to settle down, people. I need to get back to a workable level of functional dysfunction. Half of the voices in my head are unemployed. And, no, it's not Obama's fault. I feel lost. I need to know there are still security guards at airports feeling up old ladies so I can fly safely at 20,000 feet. I want to feed off the concern and speculation about the bad influence Justin Bieber will have on Chris Brown. I miss feminist outrage, homophobic paranoia, and panic over nut allergies. And no, the latter two are not related. I long to see more pictures of kids who got expelled from school because of a bad haircuts. School administrators justifying suspensions for hair style or hair color is fucking ridiculous! But it's shit like that what makes this machine called a noggin run.

I'm confident things will settle down soon enough and I'll get the grain miners back to work. So bear with me and remember: making light of the world during times of crisis is about as inappropriate as having a clown at a funeral.

Unless it's a clown funeral. I suppose that would be okay. Actually, the image of a lengthy procession of clowns climbing out of a hearse one after another after another after another...

Chicks With Bics

Product developers and advertisers are always looking for an "in" when it comes to gaining a foothold in various consumer demographics. Gender is an important component in that search. Or should we say gender separation, because the push for product identity can often equate with sexual identity. Sometimes it comes across favorably, such as Secret deodorant being "strong enough for a man, but made for a woman." Sometimes it receives mixed acceptance, as proven with Dr. Pepper 10, the diet soda for men.

Some products can leave a person scratching their head wondering if the actual value of the item outweighs the obvious pandering that it's better for one sex over the other. For example, tools. Not just hand tools, but power tools, as well. Creating something, say a screwdriver or a cordless drill, and selling it as a product "for women" because it's made to fit a smaller hand can be insulting not only to men with small hands but to women who have man hands. One should have a large collection of tools that are size-relevant to the project being worked on. Small project = small tools. Sex should only become relevant if you're fixing something as a favor to your spouse.

Razors are another product that come in his/hers styles. Granted, men and women may have different shaving needs (frequency, hair thickness, location), but aside from minor tweaks in design for shaving angle, a razor is a razor. In fact, research done by Schick showed a majority of women used razors "designed" for men. Nonetheless, companies like Schick, Gillette and Bic market the product for both sexes because men don't need* a razor on their upper lip if it vibrates, and women don't want to drag something called a Mach 3 along their crotch if it doesn't. (*Not that we men don't want one. We just don't need one.)

Occasionally, a product hits the market that makes you wonder if someone took a joke too far in the Product Development Department, or if some senior V.P. in charge of said P.D. challenged his people (stand down ladies, you know it's a guy) to push the envelope. The edge of this envelope is where I believe the ebb and flow of unemployment rates exists between product designers and public relations staff.

*Batteries not included

Not too long ago, Bic introduced the "Cristal for Her" ball point pen. Here is the product description as listed on Amazon:

"BIC Cristal For Her has an elegant design - just for Her! It features a thin barrel designed to fit a woman's hand. It has a diamond engraved barrel for an elegant and unique feminine style."

In reading through the 1,495 (and counting) customer reviews on Amazon - (Ed. note: Yes, we did.) - there was a noticeable change in the tenor of the comments. Initial reviews were on-point product evaluations regarding design and functionality. But as one would expect, once you add a clown, you create a circus. That big top went up on August 15, 2012, with a review that ended with the line, "AT LAST! Bic, the great liberator, has released a womanly pen that my gentle baby hands can use without fear of unlady-like callouses and bruises. Thank you, Bic!" And with that, an onslaught of prose ensued containing sarcastic wit at levels this blog always aspires to achieve. Grainiums had to share some of the more entertaining ones with you and crown a winner. (Another Ed. note: reviewers' identities have been withheld.)

"I can't find a switch to turn it on, and it didn't come with batteries. This is not the "for her" product I was expecting. At all."

"I needed that little something extra to complete that elusive feminine aura when I'm wearing my wife's clothing in public."

"I bought these for my wife, hoping to add some spice in our marriage for valentines day. Then she had the audacity to use it for our divorce papers."

"...I'm only giving two stars...For one thing, they dot every "i" with a little heart. They also won't make periods at the ends of sentences; it's a question mark or an exclamation point every time... Secondly, they insert "like" and "um" randomly through whatever it is you're writing..."

"First of all I'm a male. I picked a pink one up by mistake to write a quick note... Next thing I know I'm sitting down to take a pee."

"I thought that certainly a pen made especially for women would also include instructions on what words to write when one is holding it...This is very frustrating. I suppose I shall just make up names for my future husband and draw castles. It's really all the thing is useful for."

"I noticed that these are in the office and school supply section. You might want to set them in the cooking/cleaning section so that women can find them."

"Clearly I picked up the wrong pen. I have begun asking for directions and even gave back my neighbor's belt sander. I need a hug."

"These are great pens, but I'm still holding out for a pen made for us left-handed women. Some day, Bic, please!"

"My husband used this to do our taxes and now he has sore breasts."

"Will these pens make my ass look larger? If they do, I will come back and change my review to 4 stars."

"It's nice to get a Bic that fits in your hand so nicely and doesn't leak or blow all over your clothes or hand before you're finished."

To help us avoid placing a "for her" label on this blog post, we stayed away from the expected red-pen-leakage, heavy-writing-day, and monthly-hand-cramping comments. There were also a woman's a small handful of comments directed toward specific extracurricular activities, girth-related comparisons and the like that, while funny, didn't really represent the level of crass originality Grainiums sought. We did find one, however, that we felt summed up the overall tone of the consuming public...

Grainiums presents the Award for the Most Sexist Comment - Writing Instrument Category: "A pen designed for a woman should not have a ball point. Only a man's pens should have balls in them. A pen designed for a woman should be a fountain."

grab bag

Things I've seen, or heard, or would like to see, or don't understand, or understand but don't know why.

• Hand-carved wood...yes. Hand-woven tapestries...yes. Hand-cut flowers...yes. Hand-blown glass? No such thing. It's mouth-blown or lung-blown. It can be called hand-made to differentiate it from machine-made. But hands can't blow, therefore there is no such thing as hand-blown glass.

• Personalized plate...

• Everyone will know when I start suffering from short-term memory loss when I

• A Kentucky teenager was arrested for entering a bingo hall and disrupting the game by yelling the word "bingo." According to official reports, he was instantly grabbed by an officer and placed in handcuffs. My guess was so he couldn't Clap, Clap, Clap-Clap-Clap.

• Those are spinners on those rims. Can you identify the vehicle they're on? (Answer below)

• I saw a promo for the T.V. series Survivor. Not that I care about the show. I really wasn't paying attention until I heard the contestant doing the promo say something to the effect of "I may be old, but I want to show the others I still have game." No, you don't. In the context of trash talking, the word "have" is grammatically unacceptable when referring to what you "got." You can't have game. You can have a game. You can bring your "A" game. You can make a game out of something. You can win, lose or throw a game. You can be game. There are a lot of things you can do with a game, except have one. (Okay, you can have the next game, just not the one you're in.) It's got game, as in "I may be old, but I still got game." And if you find it absolutely necessary to flash your education, "I've still got game" will be allowed.

• I find it oddly amusing that questions about homosexuality qualify as "queries."

• Considering the number of idiots already on the roads, seeing this doesn't bother me. At least the bitch can park in the space.
  

• Ever sit in a booth in a restaurant and have the bench you're sitting on raise up when someone sits in the booth directly behind you, and then you spend the rest of your meal eating like you're riding on a see-saw?

• There may not be an "i" in "team", but there is a "you" in "why we didn't succeed." 

• What you see below is wrong on so many levels, and yet it really only needs just one level.

• You want to know what's trending for me? My dislike of the terms "trending," "trend" and "trendy." I dislike reading trending articles that include trended words with annoyingly trendy hashtags in front of them. I don't like the distraction of watching television and having newscasters or sportscasters inviting me to "tweet" them at one of their long lists of #'s. To me, a "#" indicates only one thing: there's a message following with poor grammar and bad spelling in it. When I see "#" I don't think "hashtag," I think "pound." Then I think #this.

 
• I'm curious to know why when I see a gasoline truck unloading at a gas station, the price for all of the grades of gas change at the same time. There are never more tanks with the truck than there are tanks in the ground, yet all of the prices change.

• Answer: Nissan Quest Minivan

Cookie Monsters

I recently encountered young girls in short skirts standing on street corners soliciting me to give them money in exchange for a treat.

No, not hookers! Girls Scouts!

It's springtime. You all know what that means here in the United States...allergies, daylight savings (except Arizona) and Girl Scout cookie sales.

Unlike this man, many people succumb to the guerrilla-style 
sales tactics of Girl Scout cookie sellers by failing to 
employ the very simple “No Eye Contact” rule.

On every corner and in front of every supermarket, tables are set up and decorated with boxes of cookies, fronted by pigtailed little angels holding hand-made signs and subjecting the public to their famous "Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?" taunts. And you're not going to say no, because you've been strung out for almost a whole year waiting to buying a box of Thin "crackMints" to feed your addiction. That's right. Addicition. Girl Scouts are the drug lords of the cookie world. The difference between a drug cartel and Girl Scouts is FDA approval. During the first quarter of every year, their Thin Mint cookies are #1, outselling even Oreos. Estimated at $785 million, Girl Scout cookies are the #3 cookie product sold in the U.S., with five of the ten best-selling cookies during those three months.

It's not enough that these girls go after the easy targets - parents, grandparents and old ladies in the neighborhood - these little darlings pimp their dads for sales, too. (Sadly, I was a victim of one such evil child.) Who's going to fuck up their career by not contributing part of their salary to the boss so his little girl can level-up on the sales chart to get her cookie bling? A large office complex can turn into a Greek marketplace overnight. And since everyone's obligated to buy from everyone else, it seems as if the same $4 are being passed the office around like a bad cold.

Did you? No.: When you buy a box of Girls Scout cookies and write the purchase off as a charitable deduction on your tax return, you may be committing tax fraud. That's because, according to the Girl Scouts' web site, if you keep the cookies for personal consumption you've purchased a product at fair market value. To receive a tax write-off, you must give them the money and leave the cookies.

Speaking of $4...it seems like only yesterday when they were $2 a box. Then it was $3.50. Now a box of cookies is as expensive as a gallon of gas, and I can make a gallon of gas last longer than a tray of coconut-laced Samoas. If the boxes feel a little lighter, too, it's because in 2009 a weighty concern arose prompting the organization to reduce the number of cookies per box. The weight issue was related to the cost of shipping, not your gut. Additional production costs have impacted quality, as well. And judging by the Photoshopped box art (above), you know they must have paid top dollar for marketing.

But it's not all about the cookies. The official Girl Scout web site proclaims, "When a Girl Scout sells you cookies, she's building a lifetime of skills and confidence." Like marketing and sales planning. Like public interaction and self-expression. Like learning that even if you suck at doing your job, baked goods are an excellent way to distract people from that.