It used to be that every man wore one of two different kinds of work attire—the white collar kind or the blue collar kind. The latter usually worked for the former. The white collar guys shook a lot of hands, ate a lot of lunch and signed a lot of documents that paved the way for how much crap the blue collar guys were going to have to put up with to actually get things done. Because, as everyone knows, it’s usually the blue collar guys who are left to do whatever the white collar guys think up.

As the kid of a white collar guy, I vividly remember watching my dad tie his tie in the mirror each morning before grabbing his hard-sided Samsonite briefcase (which I never actually saw him open), kissing my mother good-bye and heading off for another day at “the office.”

Contrary to popular culture, his wasn’t one of those clean-cut flannel, straight-leg, thin-tie with matching fedora kind of suits like TV’s Don Draper dons (no pun). No, in the seventies, “business” suits consisted of massively large print, 100 percent flammable double-knit polyester with bell-bottom pants and ties wide enough to virtually render a dress shirt unnecessary.

When my dad returned home promptly at 5:15 in the afternoon to greet my mother in the kitchen where she was cooking dinner, his tie would always be loosened some to convey the image that obviously work was tough that day. Of course, while my dad was babysitting graphic designers and writers, my mom was left with two little hellions and three meals to cook.

I always felt sorry for my dad for having to put the suit back on every Sunday morning for church after spending five of the other six says in it. I guess that’s why he wouldn’t wear anything but T-shirts and blue jeans on Saturdays—no matter what. I think that even if one of us had been up for a Grammy, Emmy, or even the Nobel Prize, if the ceremony happened on a Saturday he’d try to attend in the T-shirt without the oil stain on it.

I always had a Sunday suit growing up. I kinda dug dressing up from time to time. Made me feel older. I’d always choose mine from the three-piece kid’s suit rack at Sears. Polyester, corduroy or even topstitch denim—it didn’t matter as long as there was a cool vest in there.

By the time I was in college, suits really fell out of favor with anyone other than those trying to make some sort of name for themselves outside of the fraternity house. There’s a 10-year period where I can’t remember owning a suit. I might have had a sport coat, but nothing matching for sure.

Graduation time rolled around and I remember considering a suit once more for job interviews. But I had chosen advertising as my career path and had even worked in it for several of my college years, so I knew that the last thing a creative director wanted to see on a prospective copywriter was a suit and tie. Funky facial hair, wild shoes, cool nicknames—now that says creative.

And even though now my day job is occupying a cube for one of the larger employers here in town, I still haven’t let my career dictate my wardrobe like back in the white and blue collar days. I wear things that I like, that may or may not look good on me, but are comfortable. And that’s what those creative types with the pencil-thin goatees have figured out—comfortable employees are happier and more productive.

People who save lives or repair air conditioning systems still wear uniforms. But that’s just because they don’t want to get any gross substances on the clothes they would likely prefer to wear.

Maybe that’s why me and the suits don’t get along. My generation has figured out that it’s not what you wear that makes you successful—it’s what’s between your ears that really counts.

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

Since St. Paddy’s almost always falls on a weekday, the couple-times-a-year partier will likely belly up for his pint or two (at the most) of green beer right after work—around five o’clock. That means anyone who really wants to go out that night shouldn’t hit the pubs until about seven. By then, the work-a-day “likes to have a glass of wine with dinner” wild child will either be in line at the Krystal, or calling a cab.

Given that, it’s obviously not just the Irish who celebrate this glorious “holiday.” Or maybe it is. Who’d know? Through our mixed-up lineages of diverse family backgrounds married-in-here and having-babies-there, we Americans are the purest breed of Heinz 57 known to man. That makes us all 1/10th Irish…and English, French, Scottish, African, Asian, Leprechaun.

But regardless of where we came from, America’s red, white and blue turns green for 24 hours in March and everyone must celebrate—with liquor. Now, no one likes a cold refreshing adult beverage more than this McNoogan, but like all libation lovers I hate drinking holidays. That’s when the novices come out and incite road blocks for us all.
Almost as annoying is the fact that anywhere they would have spent their happy hour will be full of green and white Miller Lite banners, four leaf clover streamers and people wearing green plastic derbys that scream “look at me, I’m the driver you need to look out for on your way home.”

Irish pubs especially drive me bananas. The traditional folk songs about drinking, shillelaghs or somebody’s Irish rose are stout enough to drive you to too many lagers. You can go to an English pub and hear the Stones, Beatles or Kinks on the jukebox all day long. But in a true Irish pub, you’ll be lucky to catch Van Morrison, or even The Pogues. And God forbid they break out the U2. If it doesn’t have flute or fiddle then song be damned!

And good old Saint Patrick wouldn’t have it any other way. For, as the patron saint of inebriation, he proudly looks down on the lush green pastures and potato fields of his promised land each March and casts a rainbow-gold glow of whiskey and grog on all good Irishmen.

I’ve never been to Ireland, but an ex-girlfriend of mine lived there for a couple of years. She didn’t have a whole lot of good things to report back. It seems the constantly overcast skies and/or rain will drive you to the pub more often than you care to mention. Maybe that’s why she also said that despite what some might say, Guinness is by far the country’s biggest export as well as its most gracious supporter. Seems in Dublin, it’s the Guinness Museum of Art, the Guinness Library, the Guinness Homeless Shelter, etc. and so on.

She also didn’t mention much about rolling fields of clover, or as we say on March 17, shamrock. Folklore has it that St. Patrick used its three-leaf sprouts to describe the holy trinity. I guess the rogue appendage of the occasional four-leaf variety was considered lucky because it meant a free round of shots or something like that.

But despite all of St. Paddy Day’s quirkiness and amateur tomfoolery, you’ve got to have a little respect for an annual tradition that wasn’t invented by the greeting card or floral industry and continues to inspire Chicago to color its normally brown inner-city river a healthy shade of green. So go ahead—erin go braugh from pub to pub and have some fun on Wednesday. Maybe we’ll run into each other…after seven of course.

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

I have my entire collection—close to 26,000 songs—on my iPod. In case you are wondering, that means (according to Apple’s calculations) it would take me a couple hundred days, 14 hours, 8 minutes and 16 seconds to listen to them all before I’d have to hit the “play” button again. Now, given the fact that I am a music snob, simply EVERY one of those songs is worthy of listening to of course. But sometimes I don’t wanna hear Frank Sinatra right after the Beastie Boys, who were preceded by AC/DC, just after the Velvet Underground. And I certainly don’t want to hear a Christmas song in the middle of July.

That’s the problem with the random setting. It’s great when the shuffle gods deliver a string of jewels that I haven’t heard in a long time—each following the last with the precision of a great mix tape. But more often than not I find that I have to remind myself that it’s just a computer algorithm and not some little DJ on a hamster wheel spinning those great tunes. I guess that’s what playlists are for.

Some random things we unwittingly embrace as if we were zombies without minds of our own. Take the television. For most people, an agenda for nightly viewing is placed squarely upon shoulders of the programming wizards of the hundred or so channels at our remote controlled disposal.  It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen this particular Seinfeld episode, it’s on right now and you must direct your attention to the Soup Nazi one more time. Or televised movies. I’ll stop and watch Talladega Nights each and every time I pass it on the channel rotation—even though the uncut, uncensored version I could watch anytime I want is on a DVD right behind my head. Why is that?

I think it’s because we’re constantly being tugged to make a decision about something. In our “you can have anything you want anytime you want all you have to do is ask” society, you have instantaneous access to anything you could possibly fathom to help kill your time. And that can be a little much for people who just wanna relax with some mindless entertainment.

When I was a kid, regularly scheduled television programming was made up of mainly first-run shows (unless it was summer) on just three television networks (ABC, NBC, CBS). Coming home from school, the afternoon lineup of (first-run-as-far-as-we-were-concerned) classics included Leave It To Beaver, Andy Griffith, The Brady Bunch and possibly a Three Stooges episode or two. That was it. There wasn’t anything else to choose from. And in a way, that made life a little less complicated.

I’ve just recently discovered the wonderment of the DVR. Now I can record all of my favorite shows that are on when I’m not home so that I won’t watch them later because Talladega Nights is on again. Screw TBS! But it is fun to see what shows I have access to when I get the notification that its memory is dangerously close to full. And the fact that I could watch any one of them at my leisure is a good kind of random.

In fact there are all kinds of good random. Take parties or social events. Walking in the room of a fundraiser disguised as a party and seeing a bunch of people that I always intend to make plans with but never get around to it and now they are here to hang out with is great. In fact, that’s the best kind of venue to meet up with all kinds of random pals (especially if they happen to be potential girlfriends, cross-towners and/or those never-go-out-anymore married folks).

One of my favorite watering holes holds a weekly random beer night. That’s when you give them $3 and the bartender blindly dips into the cooler and randomly grabs some fancy high-gravity beer named after an animal, bicycle or Grateful Dead song. Somehow my friends always score with a 12-ounce treat they would’ve ordered by name anyway at full price.

But I always seem to end up with some blueberry wheat or pomegranate stout. At least there’s always some girl with an “I’m 21 tonite!” or “Bride 2 B” tiara on to hand it over as a congratulatory gesture. And hey, that’s the beauty of “random” —you never know what you’re gonna get.

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

But in their minds, it’s business as usual. And they’re all in cahoots with each other to control the only straight-line thoroughfare between you and wherever it is you need to be—the open skies.

You’d think they’d assume this power with an unwavering responsibility to uphold the majesty of flight while serving you a drink and then BAM!—deliver you and your bags (together) safely to any one of a thousand exotic locales in a matter of hours.

Well, they all tried to do that back in the Sixties and Seventies. Back then, your airline ticket was a binding business contract between you—the shareholder—and a major corporation. That’s why people wore suits on planes. It was business time.

Nowadays, if and when you and/or your bags arrive at another destination (albeit maybe not the intended one), the airlines unapologetically act as if you should be amazed that an aluminum flying machine can actually lift and carry 200 people somewhere else.

It’s sad, really. Amtrak is all but gone. Greyhound seems to only transport axe murderers. And gas is creeping back up the price ladder. All the while, the airlines who squashed this competition beg for government assistance in order to keep things up in the air, force us to wait patiently at the gate trying really hard not to utter aloud words like “bomb,” “explosive” or “terrorist.”

That’s another power they’ve misused—fear and intimidation. They can do whatever they want to whomever they want for whatever reason they deem necessary. Just look at Peter Buck of REM, who actually had to stand trial in London because he was too drunk on a plane. Like any member of the Rat Pack never goosed a stewardess after a few martinis.

Just recently actor/comedian Kevin Smith was ejected from a Southwest flight for being too fat to fit in the seat. Now, seems to me they’d be able to tell that just by looking at him back at the ticket counter, without having to put him through the embarrassment and humiliation of boarding and then deboarding a flight. Oh well, Kevin Smith only has 1.6 million Twitter followers who read his post, and I’m sure Southwest would have made special accommodations for him if they’d known that at the time.

I don’t have as many readers. Really, it’s just you at the moment. But I do have a complaint about a recent airline experience. My daughter just completed her first flight on her own. She’s flown with me on several occasions, but has never navigated the airport and boarded a plane all by herself. This was a big deal.

And apparently to US Airways it was a big deal too. For they charge $100 extra each way for unaccompanied minor travelers. You see my daughter is 14-1/2, not the minimum age 15 yet, so they needed to charge this fee because according to the wise men of US Air her knowledge of the airport system will not yet be fully developed until September 28 (her next birthday).

Since she was flying direct from Chattanooga to Charlotte, they let the fee slide on the first leg of her journey. I mean, even as she went through security and over to Gate 1 she was never more 50 feet away from me. However, coming home, they weren’t so lenient.

Not only did the lady at the Charlotte ticket counter shake down my daughter and 20-year-old niece for $100 cash (they refused to take my credit card without me being there), they actually required my niece (not a US Airways representative) to escort my daughter to her gate and wait with her until her plane took off. In fact, no US Airways personnel were taken away from their normal duties for one second to assist.

So what’s the $100 fee for? My niece was the only one inconvenienced by my teenage daughter’s perceived inability to find a gate using a letter and a number. They should have given the fee to my niece. But it’s their policy. And I have a policy too. My policy is to complain when I’ve been overcharged and to carefully consider previous experiences when planning future travel. And unless I get a refund, they just lost another one to Delta.

Take off!

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

I can’t talk. I was one of those Rooheads checking the site every five minutes to see the next name on the list. And each year since ’06 I’ve weighed my options for going as if I was considering moving to New York City or something. It shouldn’t seem that important of a decision, but in many ways you are “moving” to Manchester for four days and the only pro or con that’s unknown is the caliber of music you’re going to experience. That is, until February. That’s when the pondering begins.

Bonnaroo didn’t really intrigue me until the line-up for the one in ’06 was announced. That’s when the headliners moved from Phish and some semblance of a regrouped Grateful Dead to picks I dig—such as Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Radiohead. I waited right up to the last minute to make my mind up about going, but my preconceived notions about massive crowds and Woodstock-esque drug-laden muddy madness in a tent city full of mayhem and mosquitoes kept me from hitting the “buy now” button.

But when the next year’s lineup included The Police, White Stripes, Flaming Lips and Wilco, I knew that I had to check it out. Plus, some friends and I were turning 40 that year and decided that we needed to cross Bonnaroo off the “hope I _________ before I get old” list. And from then on, I was hooked.

I skipped the ’08 festival for some reason, but couldn’t resist the ’09 roster of Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band, Wilco, David Byrne, Robyn Hitchcock, Elvis Costello, Al Green, Lucinda Williams, Booker T & The DBTs and many more. I even attended solo, and was surprised at how many friends from the ‘noog I ran into in the crowd of 70,000 over the course of the weekend. Afterwards, I realized that even a lack-luster line-up might not be enough to keep me away from the cow-pasture paradise along I-24.

So when the last of the five-minute updates for this year’s talent came to fruition, I carefully assessed my enthusiasm for Bonnaroo 2010. There were plenty of acts that immediately caught my eye as must-see’s (if I were to decide to attend). So I read those names aloud to myself to see if the sheer numbers and magnitude of their musical prowess would enter my ears in a way that would ignite the part of my brain that controls instant like vs. skepticism.

My first “hell yeah” moment was when I saw that the Flaming Lips (et al) were going to perform their interpretation of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety. Released in December, this modern-day rendition of the once-untouchable, most-mega-selling record since 1973 is a jewel that you should do yourself (and the Flaming Lips) a favor and pick up. It’s amazing. But as for this show, it may be one of only a couple of performances of this project (in its entirety) from the Lips.

Okay, so one great act down. Next, I saw that Stevie Wonder was on the bill. I’m not sure that he’s even performed on stage since his opening stint for the Stones on the ’72 North American Tour, right? I mean, he’s probably never even been to Tennessee. A must see (no pun).

And then I noticed Jimmy Cliff. Really? Did they fly down to Jamaica and ask him in person? Did they release The Harder They Come on Blu-Ray or something? What could he possibly be promoting (besides ganja)? Regardless, another once-in-a-lifetime show.

Then there’s the laundry list of acts that I like but would never bother to go see unless they were part of a bigger festival—like John Fogerty, Jeff Beck, Kris Kristofferson, John Prine, Thievery Corporation, Medeski Martin & Wood, Tenacious D, They Might Be Giants and The Black Keys.

And there are always some bands that I am curious about seeing either because of songs I’ve heard, their reputation, or just because they sound cool. Bands like Tokyo Police Club, Kid Cudi, Blitzen Trapper, Phoenix, Japandroids, The Disco Biscuits, Martin Sexton and Dropkick Murphys are all gonna be in same middle Tennessee field one weekend this June. And now that I’ve talked myself into it, so am I.  See you there.

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

But who can blame her? The recall concerns a faulty sensor in the gas pedal that’s caused a few Toyotas to rapidly accelerate out of control, sending the driver and passengers careening into trees, ditches, other cars, etc. In fact, as many as 16 traffic fatalities have allegedly been linked to the defect so far. And, Toyota has admitted that re-designing and manufacturing the sensor from scratch for the millions of cars affected could take a while to achieve. Their advice if this happens to you in the meantime: jam the gear shift into neutral and coast to a stop. Nice.

These are the days when I don’t mind leaning over the seat to unlock the passenger door of my 2003 Nissan Frontier pick-up that has (literally) no sensors, power buttons, or anything related to something that would cause the car to lose control aside from driver error. No, this truck is the most basic of basic.

I’ve had better, and I’ve had worse. My first car was a late-seventies AMC Gremlin, periwinkle blue with the Levi’s denim upholstery package. Back then, the idea of a “small car” was to put a Plymouth 454 and full-size wheels on a short chassis so the raw power of its massive engine wouldn’t have to haul as much ass while it was hauling ass. But nothing on the inside of that car had the same power. Power steering and power breaks were still considered “hot features” in those days, for Pete’s sake. It did have a radio…AM.

From there I graduated through a series of hand-me downs and about three model years of Toyota Tercels before buying my first (and only) new car—a 1993 Honda Civic. And, while it had power everything, it lost exactly one-third of its value the minute we turned out of the parking lot.

The next car I purchased (used) was a 1994 Jeep Cherokee. In an effort to save money, I went back to the “no power anything” mentality. That car is still on the road (although I’m not driving it). But from there I flew to close to the sun. Forgot everything I knew about manual transmissions, window cranks and click locks. No, I went for the gold. I purchased a 2000 Volkswagen Jetta VR6.

That car had it all. Electric moon roof, electric locks, electric windows, leather, electric seat warmers, electric climate control, electric six CD changer with electric remote and best of all—it even had electric lights telling you which electric features were electrified at the moment.

In fact, the one light that illuminated the brightest and most often was the “check engine” light. And by “check engine,” they don’t mean pop the hood and look around. They mean bring it in to the dealership’s service department—and don’t forget your checkbook.

For you see, with all of these fine electrified elements come sensors that detect everything from how much gas is in the tank and when you might need a new air filter—to how long it’s been since they’ve milked another $400 out of you. That’s right; the check engine light on a 2000 VW Jetta VR6 is the “$400 indicator.” That doesn’t mean cash and prizes for you, but additional income for your local dealership between regularly-scheduled $200 oil changes, I mean, “services.”

Now, I don’t want to offend our new German neighbors by implying that they are here to assemble an inferior product. I know many, many people who’ve owned Volkswagens and experienced no problems whatsoever. Of course, none drove the fully-loaded 2000 Jetta VR6—except me. But I’m sure Volkswagens in general are well-made, safe automobiles—which brings us back to my boss.

Until Toyota figures out a solution to tame its accelerators with minds of their own, she’s parked the brand new car in the garage and gone back to her old car. Meanwhile, I still love my truck. And due to my boss’s misfortune, have stopped bragging about its intermittent windshield wipers. Best keep that little jewel to myself during these desperate times. Happy motoring.

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

That’s beside the point. For you see, finding that special someone is a mathematical equation which no great mind in history has ever been able to wrap their head around and solve. If you’re smart like Einstein, then you don’t get it. If you’re dumb like “The Situation,” you also don’t get it. But it’s simple really: males < than or = to a +/- female have < than the ability to add 1 + 1 and = 2.  And the > the participants are in age, the more difficult this equation is to solve.

Here’s why. In the teenage years and into your early twenties, males and females are on pretty much the same wavelength (albeit males have greater “needs” than females during this period). These are the salad years, when a person’s goal in life is to get married and have babies as soon as you can get that girl to take her pants off. You don’t care, you’re ready for anything…anytime…anywhere.

So, a lot of people do explore that path and end up getting divorced ten years later. It’s a proven fact. No matter what year in your twenties you get married these days, you will be divorced within ten years. That’s part of the equation. Now, in that time, you’ve probably had at least one kid. So, the “having a kid” door has opened…and shut.
If you haven’t explored marriage by age 30 due to more loftier pursuits such as finishing grad school, starting your own business and/or climbing Mt. Everest, or you did get married but it didn’t take before kids entered the picture, then at some point in your early-to-mid thirties, your goals turn from conquering the world to aspiring towards the opportunity to clean up someone else’s poop for a few years.

That’s right. People (especially women) who wanted kids “someday” in their twenties MUST have kids “right away” in their early-to-mid thirties. And this undying urge to procreate kind of clouds their judgment toward the opposite sex.

A desperate girl might say, “Sure, he did a little time in prison, but he was only 22 at the time—he didn’t know any better.” The male counterpart might say of his love interest, “I know she wears a lot of eye make-up and has 14 cats, but that’s what makes her so nurturing.”

So those people get married and have babies…then get divorced in less than five years. They married the wrong person for the wrong reasons—which brings us to late thirty-somethings who’ve never married, lived with someone, dated someone for at least a year, or had children. Those people just can’t be trusted.

Most are discovered as never having completed one of these relationship experiences in their late thirties or early forties. For it’s by this age when any one (or more) of the aforementioned should have normally occurred in their lives. And it’s at that point in meeting someone of this nature that you naively say to yourself, “Why hasn’t this jewel been snatched up long ago?” So you take a chance on dating them and figure out real quick why their luck hasn’t been so good. Insane in the membrane.

I say that, but someone who hasn’t been able to hold down a relationship long enough for the newness to wear off either has expectations that are too high, self esteem that is too low, the inability or unwillingness to compromise, or they have 14 cats. This brings us back to me.

I am 42 and have experienced all of the above—some on more than a couple of occasions.  I was married in my twenties, divorced by thirty, lived with someone, dated a few others for a year or more and have a beautiful 14-year-old daughter. So what gives?

Well, I tell ya. Anyone who’s been out there as long as I have will gladly share their war stories, and likely provide some much appreciated advice on dating. And the one thing they are sure to tell you is—sometimes the pain just ain’t worth the gain. Be picky. Choose wisely, grasshappa. And when you find a good one, hold on for dear life. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

Because, as any guy will tell you, any woman in his life—whether it’s a wife, girlfriend, booty call, sister, mother, aunt or grandmother—can remember anything and everything he has ever said, done, thought about doing, worn, eaten, dreamt, and may or may not have accomplished (depending on what he told them at the time).

A guy, on the other hand, can’t tell you what he had for lunch yesterday. A guy forgets birthdays, anniversaries, friends’ names, friends’ kids’ names, eye colors, what he gave or received as a birthday/holiday gift on any given year, and especially what you wore, ate, said or did on any given occasion. However, ask him to recite his favorite scene from Raising Arizona, the lyrics to “Brown Sugar” or any side character from —, and he’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot with the correct answer—every time.

That’s because guys only choose to remember what they want to remember. Things they find interesting. Things they can talk about with other guys. Things that make them laugh. Stupid things. Girls, on the other hand, can remember everything about a person and/or event from the past. Good, bad, scary, tearful, blissful, wasteful, funny, insulting and of course—anything you ever did to make them
mad.
They say an elephant never forgets, so women must be a first-cousin-once-removed from the common pachyderm.  They have minds like steel traps. Nothing gets by them. But what’s even scarier is that, in addition to what they genuinely “know” has happened in the past, they also have a keen sense of speculating what “might,” “will,” or “has” happened behind their back. It’s called “women’s intuition,” and it’ll bite you on the ass if you’re not careful.

Just like kryptonite is to Superman, a woman’s intuition can destroy any guy’s ability to get away with anything. Even if you think you’ve slipped one past her, she’ll smell fear and apprehension like a shark, and will go to any length to find out if your “lie” checks out. And guy, let me tell ya, it never does.

Without knowing the exact details, or even caring, her cat-like instinct can tell whether you’ve “misrepresented” yourself, a colleague or event in any way. She may know immediately, or it’ll hit her at some random time in the future. But they’ll be something you say, do, play off, or get nervous about that’ll trip her internal alarm like a cat burglar. And then, you’ve got some ’splaining to do.

The problem is, because guys can’t remember anything, we have a hard time realizing how much a woman already might know about the situation at hand. We start in on what sounds like a great explanation of our previously oblivious actions and she calls us to the mat with details about what was said or done like it happened yesterday. Each detail reveals new sparks of suspicion that serve as yet more pieces of the puzzle she’s been working on in her head since she got her first “intuition” of deceit back when the event originally happened. Then it all comes to her like a revelation. And that’s when you know you’re screwed.

She’s got the goods on you now, and you’ll pay. Even if she makes up some stuff to fill in the gaps, we wouldn’t know it. We don’t remember anything, and we’re always wrong when we try. So guys, it’s best to just give in, take your medicine, and do whatever it takes to get in their good graces again. That is, unless you did it on purpose. In that case, best of luck.

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

But in addition to the normal year-starting conundrums, this year poses a new problem—the turn of the flat “10”—which makes it difficult to determine an intuitive generality for referencing the next 12 months. No more can we hide behind the nicety of normal multi-syllable numbers such as ’76 or ’99 or rely on the crutch of the prefix “0” (pron: “Oh”) when recalling any one of the last nine years. Nope, we’ve got a new problem—and it’s called the “pre-teens.”

You see, 2010, 2011 and 2012 won’t be as easy to refer to in the dual-digit format. Ten, eleven and twelve don’t roll off of the tongue as easily as the “teens” or higher. Twenty might prove to pose a similar problem, but we’ll be fine again by ’21.

Consider this. When we say we’ll be somewhere or do something “in 10” (or 20), we mean minutes—like the sign on the shop door when the cashier is in the john. And, simply blurting out “11” or “12” without some sort of readily-apparent, specific context might just get you a visit from the men in white coats.

Think about it. You’re sitting there and someone says “man, 11 was awesome” or “things are looking up for 12.” You’d think they were bonkers. But 13, well, 13 means something very different. Thirteen definitely references a YEAR (and hopefully not an unlucky one).

I have no idea how we handled this issue way back ten years after the “turn of the century.” I don’t mean this past turn of the century—1999/2000—because that’s not what anyone means when they use the phrase “turn of the century.” They mean 1899 to 1900. Probably because that’s when all of the “turn-of-the-century antiques” were originally produced.

And we’ll never be able to change the minds of those Antique Roadshowers. They’re a little old-fashioned anyway (no pun intended). Besides, we were so worried about the end of the world during this past turn of the century that the subject never came up, and the re-reference never caught on. Just slipped right through the cracks I guess.
Anyway, it’s nearly impossible to Google “What did we call 1910 back in 1910? Was it 1910 or just 10?” Nothing pops up. And sadly no one is around to ask—unless their 100th birthday is a distant memory. I can just imagine what some old crotchety salt would spout off if you had the nerve to ask. “We called it the ‘gilded age’ you idiot—now where’s my cake?”

Up to now, referencing the last nine years has been easy. We just said “0-whatever.” Like “0-7, 0-8, 0-9.” Very different from “’99” or “2000,” and it sounds really cool when you say it. In fact, there’s some kind of hip, futuristic thing going on there.

That said, instinct now has me wanting to refer to this year using the opposite of the “0-something” naming convention. So instead of “0-9” like last year, this year would be “1-0.” But that concept has its limitations. Next year couldn’t be “1-1” because everyone in corporate America knows that “1-1” always refers to January 1st of the next year. “We need those TPS reports by 1-1” someone might say for example. And “1-2”? That’s what you say (for some strange reason) when you are testing the working order of a hot microphone—“check, 1-2. check, check, 1-2, 1-2.”

So now what? Well, fortunately there’s an out. We don’t have to refer to this year as anything but “this year” until next year. Then we can say “last year” for the next 12 months. And then, in 2012, we can say “two years ago.” And so on. Fact is, we may never have to refer to this year by number ever again, which would suit me just fine.

But if you come up with anything please let us know. I’m sure that we won’t be able to dance around the issue forever.

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com

Clear entry into transportation and housing. E-mail, text and voice communication with anyone I can imagine. Access to the wonderful free-flowing information on the Internet. A virtual notepad, MP3s of my favorite music and digital photos of my family and friends—plus a digital camera to take more. Credit and debit purchasing power, a driver’s license, AAA protection, insurance coverage and business cards just in case I meet a potential client. I even have postage stamps, a bottle opener and potentially up to $10 in cash at any given moment. All of this can be found neatly tucked within three of my four pants pockets.

Why then, would anyone need to haul around anything else? Business people need briefcases I suppose. But you can tell those who really need a bag, and those who just carry one to dupe their bosses into believing that they actually plan to continue working after a short break to eat dinner and watch Lost.

Hipsters carry around backpacks and man bags. Some want you to believe that they are mysteriously homeless or might have to bolt for days on end at any given moment. I’m pretty sure those useless parcels contain one or more of the following: a flannel shirt, a filthy toothbrush, a spiral notebook (with drawings and poetry), a packet of loose cigarette tobacco and papers, a striped-sleeve polyester jogging jacket and/or army jacket with at least one Black Flag and/or Ramones button proudly pinned on the collar and a dog-eared copy of Naked Lunch, On The Road and/or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

However, nothing can prepare the male of the species for that mysterious black hole known as the female handbag. For it’s this fashion accessory full of random stuff that is likely the most puzzling combination of swag known to humankind.

First off, please refer back to the first two paragraphs. All of those handy conveniences can also be found in the female purse. However, ladies require the storage volume of a small piece of luggage for those things to in any way be “portable”.

Take women’s keys. They don’t just have a car key and house key on a simple ring. They have a carabineer that’s hooking together at least eight rings of keys to every lock they’ve ever had access to and fobs from every vacation destination they’ve ever visited—plus a bottle opener, mace can and rape whistle. It’s a tangled mess of metal weighing in at no less than two pounds.

Then there’s the wallet. Checkbook size with at least ten credit cards, a copy of every financial document they’ve received in the last six months plus coupons and gift cards for a few more. And if that’s not enough, covering up the iPhone or Blackberry they must check every five seconds, lay the other sundries a woman requires in order to leave the house—make-up bag, hair brush, digital camera, photo album, sunglasses, other pair of sunglasses, glasses, hair clip, lip gloss and of course, gum.

The fact that oversized purses are now the fashion should seemingly make it easier for a woman to keep up with all of these items. Nothing doing.  Even with this functional nap sack for their stuff, a woman can still go out for a night on the town and lose roughly half of their belongings over the course of the evening.
Because when your primary concern is how you look dancin’ on a speaker with a shot in each hand, you tend to forget about where any of your stuff is at any given moment. A guy can do a quick “pocket pat” to make sure that phone, wallet and keys are on board.

A woman, however, will separate her most vitally important, life-sustaining items into other people’s pockets, the bar table, under the bar table, the bar table over there, the bar, her car, your car, the first and last place you visited and/or the couch cushions where you were making out with her (but didn’t make it past second base before she passed out).

Then when morning comes and sobriety kicks in, she’ll immediately panic and surmise that her lack of reason during the night makes you accountable for helping her find all of this stuff which NOW seems so important to locate. And guys just go along with it, because that’s our job. But hey, we’d all be lost without our “stuff,” now wouldn’t we?

Chuck Crowder is a local writer and general man about town. His opinions are just that. Everything expressed is loosely based on fact, and crap he hears people talking about. Take what you just read with a grain of salt, but pepper it in your thoughts. And be sure to check out his popular website www.thenoog.com