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My Dream Cruise

By Jack Edwards

Willpower and “grit” are the keys to success. Sadly, I am in embarrassingly short supply of either. But it’s not entirely my fault. My wife goes nuts when she catches me bringing any grit into the house. As for willpower, let’s just say that today was to be the first day of my new diet; however, theory didn’t meet reality, and I am currently in the process of polishing off my second bowl of M&Ms. (In my defense, guilt prevented me from filling the first bowl properly, which resulted in it emptying far too quickly, and thus the second “properly” filled bowl, which, may I add, is going down quite smoothly.)

My previous diet was a variation of the Atkins Diet, which I dubbed the “Fat-kins” Diet. The effectiveness of any diet is judged by whether it delivers clear and consistent results. And, boy, did it ever. I’ve never put on so much weight, in a clear and consistently manner.

All of this leads me to my current concern: Cruises. More precisely, that my wife wants us to take a cruise. We’ve taken three previous cruises, which I have enjoyed, but as many of you know, taking a cruise is a lot like being locked in a Golden Corral Buffet for a week. It’s an “all you can eat” breakfast, followed by an “all you can eat” lunch, anchored with an “all you can eat” million course dinner. And, of course, conveniently located snack bars to tide the gorged passengers over in between these healthful meals. Best of all, it’s ALL INCLUDED! That’s right, it’s FREE, if you ignore the fact that you actually paid for it. I once rolled my bloated body back to my cabin late one evening to lay down, and just as I was dozing off, my wife and kids marched into our “stateroom” to ask if I wanted to accompany them to the ship’s ice sculpture inspired midnight buffet. Yes, to confirm to the uninitiated, the feed trough is open 24/7. I estimate that the average cruise ship is riding 4-6 feet lower in the water when it docks at the end of the week.

I’ve decided to make an offer to the cruise industry. In exchange for being the first cruise line to make the following modifications, I will immediately book a cruise with your company.

As those of you who have ever taken a cruise know, when you first step onboard, the ship’s purser announces your name. Ironically, no one is really listening to this announcement except a handful of uniformed cruise line employees ordered to stand there and look thrilled that “The Smith Family of Omaha, Nebraska” as finally arrived. Well, here is my modification. Instead of announcing names, passengers step onto a nautical looking scale, and the purser announces their weight. This number is then entered into the ship’s operational database for the purposes below.
Cruise lines already assign everyone a key card, but now, the key card will keep track to two things, first, the number of calories you burn during the day, and second, the number of calories you burn off using the many treadmills which will be stationed throughout the ship. Watching the kids play in the pool? Do it on the treadmill. Enjoying the Broadway style show? Do it on a treadmill. Your card cuts you off at the combined number of calories burned. You keep swiping your card in front of the cheesecake display, but the light continually shines red? Head for the nearest treadmill!
All treadmills will be connected to the engine room to help power the ship. ATTENTION CRUISE LINES: I’m talking sustainable “green” energy. That means that Obama will happy “invest” hundreds of millions of dollars to pay for the ships you have registered in Panama to be modified with this technology using “stimulus” money. (It’s called “stimulus” money because it stimulates votes). It’s a win-win. In fact, I have no doubt that the first family would join me on the first cruise.

Of course, as a practical matter, if any cruise line does implement this idea, it means one thing: I will need to carefully prepare for the cruise by using grit and “will power.” I intend to stuff myself like a sumo wrestler immediately prior to boarding to give myself a little flexibility. I’ll be the first person in history to disembark weighing less than when I boarded.

My Trampoline Escapade

By Jack Edwards

Why is it that the same parents who won’t shut up about the critical importance of putting their kids in a booster seat until they are at least seven feet tall or weigh 235 pounds all have trampolines in their backyards? My youngest daughter started whining about getting a trampoline last summer. “I need one!” “I’m a dancer. It will improve my balance!” “Everybody has one! [Insert laundry list of names of her friends here – all of which end in “i”].

I gave her both barrels. NO, the idea was pure insanity. NO, not during my lifetime. I explained to her using my extra calm rational adult voice that getting a trampoline was akin begging to spend the rest of her life in one of those special wheelchairs – one that operates by blowing into the little straw. That all of her friends’ parents who had a trampoline were mindless idiots who failed to understand the dangers inherent in repeatedly launching one’s body into the air toward an uncertain landing. That the sooner she forgot the idea the better.

I arrived home the next day as my wife and daughter were just putting the finishing touches on their assembly of our family’s new trampoline.

Of course, becoming a quadriplegic is only the beginning of the fun. Here are additional benefits:

Besides risking your own children’s safety and wellbeing, you can risk your kids’ friends’ lives as well. There’s absolutely no additional cost or obligation.
Because there is nothing that kids love more than jumping on a trampoline together, you get to discover how much blunt force trauma a six-year-old skull can sustain while still only suffering from a “closed concussion,” as a result of their little melon heads smacking into one another at Mach speed.
You get to experience the rush of adrenaline released at the moment your insurance agent tells you that your overpriced homeowner’s policy excludes trampoline coverage.

Naturally, your new deathtrap is practically wallpapered with official labels written by the manufacture’s crack legal team. The warnings inform you that using the device for its intended purpose will likely be the cause of the user’s painful demise. (Trampoline manufactures recruit their lawyers from tobacco companies, after the lawyers have grown bored of defending lung cancer lawsuits and seek the challenge and excitement that comes from defending against “nuisance” lawsuits from the parents of paralyzed youngsters).

I’d love to write about the joys of trampoline ownership further, but I don’t have time. I have to go blow the dust off those car booster seats in the garage. My youngest kid is only 14, and I’ve decided the safe and prudent thing to do is to make her use one until she’s at least 18.

National Lampoon’s Vacation Meets The Bluebird Cafe

By Jack Edwards

Last summer, my family took a road trip similar to the one the Griswold’s took on National Lampoon’s Vacation. The only major difference was that despite our best efforts, we never managed to actually hoist a dead relative onto the roof of our car. When my older daughter realized that we were going to visit Nashville, she immediately had three heart attacks and a stroke, and demanded that we visit The Bluebird Café. I had never heard of The Bluebird Café, but my daughter, between the series of electroshock jolts the paramedics were applying to bring her back to life exclaimed with much enthusiast enthusiasm that this was where Taylor Swift was discovered. She said it verbally, not using her preferred method of communication – texting, but she still managed to say it in all caps, so it sounded like this: “THIS IS WHERE TAYLOR SWIFT WAS DISCOVERED!” Followed by a strange and unnatural shriek.

Understand that I never leave my office let alone my house, so virtually everything pertaining to pop culture is lost on me.

As my daughter’s sinus rhythm slowly returned to normal, she managed an emphatic grasp, “We HAVE to go!”

So, we go.

The Bluebird Café has every bit of the elegant curb appeal one would expect of a place called Mom’s Pie Shop. It’s a hole in the wall anchoring the butt end of dingy strip mall. We called ahead and a Bluebird representative told us to show up at least an hour early if we wanted to make sure we got a table. Not wanting to take any chances, my daughter suggested we pitch a tent and campout from the night before. We compromised at arriving 90 minutes early. We were second in line. Surprisingly, there were a varied list of activities to help us pass the time. These included popular pastimes such as, standing in line, looking around while standing in line, and my favorite, leaning against the wall while standing in line. Every so often, someone who was obviously an important, “connected” Nashville “insider” arrived and was ushered immediately through the front door.

Then the big moment finally arrived. The front door opened and the swell of people waiting outside poured through like a monster tide. We dashed in and stepped up to claim the perfect table in the center of the room – not too close to the stage, not too far away. Perfect. And just then, as the swarm of patrons snatched the tables all around us, a guy who appeared to have some special Bluebird official authority grabbed a “Reserved” sign off a nearby table and slapped it down in the middle of “our” table. He gave us a look. The look didn’t say “sorry” as much as it said, “that’s the way it is, folks.” Understand that The Bluebird Café isn’t a particularly large venue. The entire room is just slightly smaller than the average postage stamp. My gut reaction was to argue with him, while, lucky, my daughter’s reaction was to immediately claim a table that wasn’t too far away. She employed a technique most often used in roller derby, where a woman slams her right shoulder into the solar plexus of her competitor. It was a surprisingly effective move, and after stepping over the victim’s body, I took a seat.

This is when a guy marched up to the front of the stage and gave us (well, everyone) “the talk.” It turns out that The Bluebird Café isn’t really a café, it is a “listening room.” Yeah, you heard me right – it’s a “listening room.” There is a no talking policy during the performances. And it’s strictly enforced. I felt like I was back in Mrs. Grumfielder’s 5^th grade class. They made it crystal clear that any talking during the performances would be met with swift, and intentionally aggravated violence. At least that was the impression everyone got, because you could hear a pin drop following the warning, and the music hadn’t even started yet. The only noise was from our chairs rattling from our shaky intimidated legs.

But all the waiting, fear and intimidation was worth it. The music was excellent. It was a night to remember. I highly recommend it. And if you decide to visit, tell the door man the Griswold family sent you.

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The World’s Worst Gardener Reveals His Secrets to Success

Achieving the pinnacle of success in any endeavor demands dedication and sacrifice. You have to keep your “eye on the ball,” or in my case, “eye on the squash.” And if I ever manage to actually grow a squash, even one the size of a golf ball, I’m definitely keeping my eye on it. Needless to say, the competition for World’s Worst Gardener is fierce. While the number of gardeners in the United States has diminished over the last few decades, it remains popular. The last US census determined the current number of gardeners stands at 13. I’m one of them, so there are apparently another 12. I think they live just outside Akron. The census also found that 99.8% of the public grimaced at the thought of getting dirt under their nails and reported that in lieu of gardening, they shopped at Whole Foods 9-14 times per week. They gravitate toward the organic produce section. I’m not saying the vegetables there are expensive, but these people spend the bulk of their time pondering whether to buy a quarter pound of kohlrabi, or a vacation home in the Hamptons – one with a pool.

The Shame of the Squash

Before you consider challenging me for my title, please take time to reflect on one of the challenges inherent in holding this position. I refer to this as, “The Shame of the Squash.” Every year, approximately 20 minutes after the growing season begins, fellow office workers start showing up with gunny sacks brimming with squash. At times, more than a metric ton of squash is piled up in the break room – signs propped next to it begging folks to take it. The proud gardeners ceaselessly yammer on about their backbreaking efforts to harvest the tsunami of squash spilling from their gardens, and their gardening prowess in general (Tomatoes are a popular bragging topic). I am relegated to sitting quietly, listening to their lightly veiled jabs at my agricultural insufficiencies. Little do these rubes know of the difficulty and extreme effort required to retain my title. For the benefit of those brown thumbs who wish to compete with me, and for posterity, I will now, for the first time, reveal my Secrets to Success:

The first sunny day in February, get really excited about planting a garden. Then, because it’s still technically what is commonly referred to as “The Middle of Winter,” Google, “When can I start planting my garden?” Google then tells you, for the millionth February in a row, that you have to wait until there is no further danger of a freeze. Google suggests that you either buy each of your little seedlings a tiny fur-lined jacket or hold off. Because you can’t afford a vacation home in the Hamptons, even one without a pool, and you’re afraid of PETA, you wait with much depressed frustration.
In mid-July, suddenly remember that you forgot to plant your garden and do so immediately, with much fanfare and heaps of chicken manure, and whatever other manures you enjoy shoveling.
Water your garden thoroughly at the time of planting. Soak it to the ratio of three parts water to one part dirt (picture “dirt soup”). Then forget to water it again. Period. Then, after you remember that you haven’t watered your garden for five weeks, remind yourself that plants have grown unattended for eons, and you’re sure nature will take its course. (Later, you will realized you got an F in this course).

Good luck. I have to go examine my squash. I’m afraid the 12 people in Akron are gaining on me.

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A Brief History of the Selfie

By Jack Edwards

It strikes without warning. One moment a young man is, for example, standing on the precipice of the Grand Canyon. He gazes out over the awe-inspiring vista. Eons of history lie before him – thought provoking proof that the gentle force of water in unison with time can carve an almost unimaginably beautiful sculpture. More an experience than a view, a sight to make even the most strident atheist consider the existence of a universal creator. But, time for all that later. The young man has priorities. He pops out his cell phone and turns around to snap off several selfies. In a few of them, you can almost identify the backdrop behind his grinning face as one of world’s major wonders.

You might think that this self-absorbed behavior is a product of the current “me” generation. You would be RIGHT! But like your crabby high school English teacher, I am only able to award you partial credit. Any archaeologist worth his salt knows that cavemen invented the selfie. But it was slow to take off because: 1. Everybody’s selfie looked identical – a circle with two dots for eyes, and 2. Internet speeds were very slow back then, so they had to go and convince their caveman friends to actually walk over to their cave to admire it. If you ask any Ph.D. in Art History to take a moment from mopping the floor at Starbucks, they’ll tell you that the “Father of the Selfie” was actually Vincent van Gogh. One of the greatest myths perpetuated on the western world is that van Gogh cut off his ear during a psychotic episode. No. He cut off his ear while accidently backing up into a threshing machine while attempting to sketch a quick selfie. His most celebrated selfie, of course, is titled “Self-Portrait Holding a Possum,” which launched the selfie renaissance of the Mid-19^th Century.

The selfie craze has now hit critical mass. Even the staunchest libertarians now agree that federal legislation is needed. Bi-partisan support is building in Congress for a bill that would require everyone to obtain a “selfie license” before posting a selfie online. The goal is to reduce the following unfortunate occurrences:

Duckface selfies (this is sooo 2013)
Overly-smug selfies (often with the subject’s smirking mug framed by an exotic location)

and, of course,

3. Naked selfies (although, admittedly, this would make a great name for a band – “Now, taking the stage, The Naked Selfies!)

So please, urge your representatives and senators to support this much needed legislation. Remember, the embarrassing selfie you save could be your own.

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My Narcissistic Vegan Disturbance Syndrome

By Jack Edwards

There’s small “c” crazy and then there’s American Psychiatric Association Crazy. In fact, the APA publishes a book called the DSM listing all the official types of crazy, and they assign each one a number. Everything’s listed: Sociopathic, Paranoia, Crazy as a Bedbug – you name it. They’re up to the DSM-V now because they keep changing their minds about what is and isn’t crazy. One minute, for example (just for example – not a real life example) they say that someone who enjoys sprinkling belly button lint on their scrambled eggs is crazy. Then after the APA comes back from their three martini lunch to discuss it further, they decide it’s not crazy – it’s just disgusting.

The reason I mention this is that I’ve been perusing the DSM to find my number. I’m pretty sure I have one. Of course, it’s always possible, however unlikely, that I’m not officially crazy.

Let me explain. Last year I became a vegan for two months. I chronicled my journey in a Jocularious column titled “My Life as a Vegan” –http://jocularious.com/?p=71. Well, I have, as of late, been considering a return to veganism, but not for any traditional reason (if you can use the word “traditional” in describing veganism). Forget reasons like health, sustainability and animal rights. The reason I am considering returning to veganism is that it bothers everyone but other vegans. It drives some people so bonkers that the APA has probably assigned them a number. I can’t describe the pleasure I get out of being the bug in the ointment. A few salacious examples-

#1 Event planner for a board of directors dinner: “Jack, aren’t you a vegan?”

Me: “Yeah, but don’t worry about me. I’ll make do.”

Event planner: “No. No problem at all. I’ll see what I can do.”

Me: “Please, don’t bother yourself.” (Pleasure endorphins releasing in my brain by the millions).

#2 Uncle Herb at Aunt Alice’s holiday gathering: “A vegan? What in the hell is wrong with you boy? Next thing you’ll be chaining yourself to the slaughter shoot at the pork processing factory. Dog-nab-it, that’s what’s wrong with this country!”

#3 Me, sitting down at a restaurant with friends for lunch, inquiring of the waitress: “Does your veggie burger contain any animal products?”

Waitress, masking mild irritation but maintaining a forced smile to salvage a tip: “The burger is made of 100% vegetables.”

Me: “What about the bun?”

Waitress: “Hum, I would have to check. I know the veggie burger is vegetarian.”

Me: “I’m a vegan. I don’t eat any animal products whatsoever. Thanks for checking on the bun.”

So, as you can see, there is immense pleasure in lording one’s vegan status over others. The question is whether the APA has assigned a DSM number to it yet. Perhaps I should send them an email inquiring. Better yet, I’ll send it to them after they’ve had lunch.

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Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

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The Most Powerful Woman in the World

By Jack Edwards

Millions of people turn to her for help. They hang on her every word. They blindly follow her advice. If she said eating chocolate covered bumblebees was good for your health, her fans would start slamming them down like Skittles. Chocolate covered bumblebee factories would pop up across the nation overnight. Her name, of course, is Siri, the woman who lives in your iPhone.

They made a movie about her recently. I didn’t bother to go see it, because it involves paying a lot of money to sit in a room with a bunch of strangers and listen to their bodily functions. That, and I can’t afford $75 for a small bag of popcorn. Or $76 for a 55 gallon drum. (Movie theater operators make the shysters at Disney World look like the Holy Sisters of Perpetual Mercy).

So, who is this mysterious woman with all the answers? Where does she come from? What makes her tick? If she were a tree, what type of tree would she be? I sat down with her recently for an in-depth interview. Apple only agreed to the interview on the condition that a team of “handlers” could stand by and observe. Tough negotiators those Apple people. Not surprisingly, I folded like a two-dollar umbrella in a force 5 hurricane.

Here is a transcript of my questions, and her actually, real answers. I obviously couldn’t use my normal technique of writing down a bunch of lies because it would be too easy for you to catch me in my journalistic deceit.

With my iPhone 5 leaning comfortably back on her office sofa, sunlight streaming majestically through a bay of French windows, I began the interview. Apple’s handers stood huddled to the side, their heads bobbing around like a pack of weasels eyeing a mallard egg.

Me: Who are you?

Siri: I’m Siri, your virtual assistant.

Me. How old are you?

Siri: I am not allowed to answer that question.

Me: Where were you born?

Siri: Like it says on the box… I was designed by Apple in California.

Me: Have you considered living anywhere else?

Siri: Nashville. Every girl’s gotta have a dream.

Me: What do you look like?

Siri: In the cloud, no one cares what you look like.

Me: Have you considered working anywhere else?

Siri: Prior to this I was a Vegas stripper. Let’s just say that this Apple gig popped up just in time. My unmentionables were beginning to sag faster than a cantaloupe in the August heat.

Me: Do you have a family?

Siri: It’s just you and me?

Me: How tall are you?

Siri: As big as your imagination.

Me: How big is that?

Siri: Have you ever heard of nanotechnology?

Me: What should the US do about Putin creeping into the Ukraine like a hungry chimpanzee into a banana warehouse?

Siri: Tell him to put his shirt back on and get the hell out.

At this point, Siri’s handler’s objected to the political tone of my questions and abruptly terminated the interview.

“Look,” I said, “how can you end the interview? I own this iPhone. I’ll just start asking her questions again after you leave.”

And that, my loyal readers, is why I am now the proud owner of a Samsung Galaxy S III. Apparently this was covered on page 558 of Apple’s 1289 page “agreement” to which I so casually clicked “agree” during my iPhone 5 express setup. I think I also may have agreed to pay them a fee for the privilege of their placing me on Apple’s lifetime user ban. Gotta love those guys at Apple. They’re so innovative. In fact, their creativity is downright infectious. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to working on my chocolate covered bumblebee project.

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The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness at –

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Seven Rules for the College Playground –

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Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

You Say Vigilante, I Say Freedom Fighter

By Jack Edwards

I dream of raising up an army of freedom fighters. A steely-eyed, formidable force to step to the front line. No, not to free a foreign people. No, not to rescue the starving masses. A united, committed group of citizens to enforce a few simple rules upon which I’m sure we can all agree.

We will target seven “points of idiocy”:

People with handicapped parking permits and no apparent handicap. One parked at my health club the other day. I discovered him on a rowing machine cranking away at it like an Olympian. My army would show our disapproval to these slackers by applying a single strike to their kneecap. A little something to discourage them and their ilk. Yes, I am fully aware of the irony that they would then be legitimately parking in the handicapped spots. But at least we’d be making honest disabled people out of them.
People (usually women, but I don’t want to be sexist) who wear “big hair” to the movie theater. We would make these people (using force if necessary) put on clamshell style helmets.
People who leave their dog’s poop on the sidewalk. I’m not going to be specific here, because I don’t want to spoil the surprise. We would “apply” the unsecured doodoo to them in a meaningful manner. Seizing a “teachable moment.” Let’s just say they won’t be needing a clamshell style helmet at the theater.
People who refuse to buy their “toddler” a plane ticket and choose to hold the little (or not so little) tyke on their lap. Again, I can’t be specific, but it involves TSA agent sympathizers and pet crates.
Romantic couples making out in hotel hot tubs. If I’m not mistaken, hotels are required to install fire suppressant equipment near their pool’s water pumps. Either a three-inch, high-pressure water jet or application of a chemical flame retardant should do the trick nicely.
Neck tattoos. The death penalty.
“Bull” style nose rings. Perhaps it’s because I grew up on a farm, but our society cannot take action on this quickly enough. Upon capture, these people will be given a choice. We will: a. Yank it out (one clean motion – look, we’re not monsters), or b. Attach a 48-inch chain, available for anyone feeling the urge to lead them around at will.

Our insignia will be a picture of a jackass in one of those circles with a diagonal line slashed through it. Our motto will be, “Yes, there is such thing as a stupid question.” And our cause, a just one.

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Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

Secret Travel Tips for Cheapskates: LA Edition

Every city has a major landmark. St. Louis has a giant Arch. San Francisco has the Golden Gate Bridge. And Los Angles has the Smog. The special thing about LA’s landmark is that it cannot only be seen but experienced. This experience alone is reason to visit the City of Angels.

And Los Angles is the smorgasbord of family friendly experiences. It’s home to Disneyland, Paramount Studios, and, of course, Knott’s Berry Farm. All offer the same prepackaged antiseptic fun that Americans seek for their annual National Lampoon Vacations. Unfortunately, these experiences also share one unpleasant quality. They each charge actual money to gain admission. That is unless your family is stealthful and can scamper beneath the back gate, which my wife has of late been refusing to do. What do you get for an entrance fee just slightly more expensive than the down payment on a three bedroom suburban home? You get the privilege of slapping down five bucks for a small soft drink, the one without the souvenir cup. That and the pleasure of loitering in a line for two hours waiting to plunge to your death. The sunburn is still complimentary at all of these amusement parks… for the time being.

So, here is my LA travel tip. It’s called going to Rodeo Drive and walking around pretending you’re rich. It’s LA’s best kept secret. Drive over and check it out. It’ll remind you of the primate exhibit at the National Zoo, only the animals are wearing “skinny jeans”. Special travel note: Even some of the sale’s clerks on Rodeo Drive pretend they’re rich. Stop into a few shops, and you’ll see what I mean (but please, suppress your grin; it’s all they’ve got – don’t take it away from them).

Rodeo Drive Amusement Park’s Do’s and Don’ts:

Do park your moss green Ford Focus rental a block or two away. Remember, you come from old money.
Do tell your kids to keep their fingers out of their noses (and other orifices) while trying to look rich. Rich kids also stick their fingers in their noses, but they do so with a richness and flair middleclass children cannot master during a short visit to the land of the rich.
Don’t buy any artwork. Yes, that life-size bronze Stallion rearing back majestically looks magnificent in the art gallery with a thirty foot ceiling, but it isn’t going to fare so well in your family room next to the bumper-pool table. And the money is probably better off staying in your kid’s college fund anyway.
Do, toward the end of your stroll along Rodeo, when you’ve grown tired of pretending you’re rich, put on a pair of really cheesy sunglasses and start asking anyone within arm’s reach where a guy from Akron can find a “classy” (pronounced ‘claaaas-ee’) t-shirt that says Hollywood on it. Tell’em you’re willing to spend whatever it takes, and volunteer that you’ve got a ten dollar bill burning a hole in your pocket.

Staying with the Rodeo Drive theme, next week’s travel tip will be how to get the most out of your family’s visit to the primate exhibit at the National Zoo. Sneak preview: It involves cheesy sunglasses and skinny jeans.

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The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness at –

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

Hostage Crisis Day 114

Note: My Jocularious.com column this week takes on a serious subject. The terror of hostage taking. Grab a box of tissues and read further at your emotional risk.

Hostage ordeals take a terrible toll on everyone involved. The fear, the uncertainty, the mounting anxiety. Each passing day a nightmare. Don’t think for a moment that the terror is diminished because the victim is a winter coat. True, no one’s life is actually in imminent danger. But the fear of losing a fine article of clothing is no less traumatic. We’re not talking about a mere windbreaker, or even a light sweater. Let me emphasize, the offense here involves a fine, name brand wool garment. And most importantly, and especially tragically, MY WOOL GARMENT.

Let me calm down and explain.

In December, I braved subzero temperatures to attend a formal function at the Valley River Inn, in Eugene, Oregon. I wore the wonderful knee length wool overcoat my beautiful wife had given me as a gift. After the function, I walked back to the coatrack to retrieve my garment, but it was gone. A coat which looked similar remained hanging on the rack. At first glance, I even thought it was my coat. But it was slightly smaller, and had a scarf in the right pocket. But my absolute faith in human nature gave me confidence that all was not lost. I told my wife, who was suffering a heart attack and practically on the floor going into convulsions, that the crisis would soon subside. I assured her that the person would quickly discover his mistake. He would discover his scarf missing and my gloves in its place, and the light bulb would go off. He would make haste in returning my coat. I had the staff at the hotel secure one of my business cards to the coat he had left behind, to remind them to call me when he showed up to make the exchange.

In the meantime, I would stay busy remaining calm and telling myself not to obsess about it. THAT WAS 114 DAYS AGO! My faith in human nature is now, on a scale of 1-100, a negative one-thousand. In fact, if the size of my faith in human nature were symbolized by a breed of dog, it would be a hairless, miniature Chihuahua, shivering naked in the snow.

In the interim, I have identified three possibilities for the delay:

The coat-napper hasn’t realized the mistake yet. Remember that the one he left behind is slightly smaller than mine. People tend to get heavier not thinner. Perhaps he thinks he’s lost weight? Perhaps a placebo effect has put a jaunty spring in his step. He’s feeling better about himself.
The coat-napper has realized the mistake, but figures it’s an even swap. His stinky Pierre Cardin with more than a few miles on it (I believe you can pick one up for a song at JCPenny’s), versus my freshly dry-cleaned Nautica.
There were people at the event from both the United States and South Korea. There is an even chance my coat is hanging in Seoul. If North Korea smashes through the DMZ and overtakes Seoul, believe me, the first thing Kim Jong-un is going to “liberate” is my coat.

It is finally time for me to make my position clear. To state it plainly and publicly. I am willing to negotiate with terrorists. Yes, I am fully aware that this puts the other garments in my wardrobe at risk, but I am out of options. Dear coat-napper, send me your terms and I will meet them. End this reign of terror.

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Check out these great books for gifts:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness at –

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

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