The Danny Scrotum Experience

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The roar of the cheesecake, the smell of the Xanax

TomKat-atonic. That's what I am. Abso-freakin'-lutely TomKat-atonic.

Over the last few months, as Tom Cruise has transformed himself from boyfriend of Katie Holmes, to Beyoncé-styled crazy-in-love furniture molester, to pod person for Scientology, to kicking Brooke Shields while she's down, to father of Rosemary's, um, Katie's baby, I've been reminded of the following moment from an episode of Saturday Night Live. A couple of years ago, during the "Weekend Update" segment, Tina Fey gave the following report:

"Today Star Jones did something no other woman in the world has ever done before. She got married."

Ergo, Tom and Katie and baby makes three--three press releases a minute, that is, emanating from the time that a gleam in their parents'--nay, their publicists'!--eyes first appeared to the present nanosecond. The baby's parents felt the baby kick! The baby's parents heard the baby coo! The baby's parents--at least, one of the baby's parents--seems unable to stop himself from interviews everytime he has a new thought about the Baby, Fatherhood, Life, or his Pyramid-scheme-like faith!

And Tom and Katie, everyone's concept of model parents ('cause don't they look plastic and don't they look like they've been sniffing glue), well, they've been absolute troupers throughout it all. All the baby had to do was find the right egg-sperm combination, gestate, be born, and live. The parents, on the other hand, have had to provide a constant stream of sound bites and a neverending video feed to the press. Far more exacting. Stupid lazy baby.

I swore to myself I would avoid writing about the "TomKat" phenomenon (who was I kidding?), but the last week, with the arrival of little Suri (and the lack of action by child welfare offices everywhere) has pushed me over the edge. No, I haven't jumped on any chairs, grinning maniacally, and speed-freakishly Rainman-ing stream-of-semi-conscious drivel to Oprah (America's greatest enabler, self-help TV talk show category) like a stalker-schoolboy about "how MUCH I love this COUPLE." But I just cannot let sleeping crackpots lie any longer. I have to go there, folks. I have to talk about and dissect TomKat.

But, oh, they are so unworthy and so . . . boring. Thus, this should take no time at all.

There are only so many vacuous, "are the drugs wearing-off?" looks from Katie and "thank God, I'm a coke-adled country boy!" grins from Tom that any of us should have to witness. What are these people about? What are these people on? And what have we as a nation done to deserve being assaulted with their daily inanities, insanities, and insecurities?

Watching Tom and Katie in their goofy, desperate, stuporous kind of amour is like watching any of your friends in the first throes of love--rather nauseating and quickly tiresome. No matter how well you may wish the happy couple, you can't help but get the discomforting feeling that they've joined some sort of millennial cult. It's all very Jim Jones in Guyana with special Kool-Aid Acid Test cocktails, if you ask me. Thus, it won't be long before you're hearing about your friends' Sid and Nancy-styled exploits in a segment entitled "Why good couples skip counseling and go straight to hell" or "When love gets behind the wheel drunk and angry and kills someone" on the next episode of Dr. Phil.

Maybe that's what love is, always has been, and always will be. (It's been a while for me.) There was even that Valentine's Day report about your brain in love, how it lights up in brain scanners similar to the way it does for those who you crave chocolate or drugs. It's all a bit creepy--not to mention annoying, especially if you have to sit around and watch other people act it out. Kind of like very tedious charades that are all based on the titles of soft-core porn films.

Of course, your friends aren't really quite like TomKat. T & K, Inc., are perhaps more photogenic, have tons more money, and indulge in an excessive, obsessive jones for global satellite communication access, snorting pixels and shooting up bandwidth like an off-the-wagon, failed Narcissists Anonymous, "Hi, my name is . . ." Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. But the effect is more or less the same--tedious, tummy-turning, torturous--except on an even grander, cosmic scale.

If truth be told, though, in my mind, the only thing that has made Tom Cruise remotely interesting ever is his recent, repeated visits to Outer Whackgolia. A year ago, I was ready to dismiss him as merely an aging closet case with a need for hero worship and frequent media attention. Now I'm half-ready to salute him as an aging closet case and an amazing self-promoting wunderkind. The weirder he gets, the more we want to watch him under the glare of great lighting with smudge-proof make-up, just to see if he'll actually eat his baby's placenta and umbilical cord, instead of merely just joking about doing so. Ha ha. You slay us, Tom.

Still, for the most part, without the cash, the access, and the bottomless hunger to be paid attention to, most stars, even the agreed-upon attractive ones, seem fairly low-wattage--ordinary, everyday, kind of average. Julia Roberts? Just another mean-girl, Southern prom queen with a grotesquely oversized mouth. Mel Gibson? Your basic Aussie-American yobbo with a Christ complex. Britney Spears? Just another Daisy Duke shotgun bride hankerin' to get preggers agin. Michael Jackson? Your average mask-wearing, chimp-cavorting, Elephant Man-loving, high-pitched child molester. No big deal. Really.

Now if only we could convince the glitterati and their attendant camera crews and pop documentarians of the lack of celebrity significance, we might all spend a peaceful, enjoyable year or two before we run low on fossil fuels, bring about irrevocable destruction of the ozone layer, foment hourly tit-for-tat terrorist attacks, and have to resort to a Lord of the Flies-themed system of social order.

We've got to fill our time somehow. It's your call--more Hello! OK! In Style! Us! People! or News of (the End of) the World.

Which is scarier? My money in the Powerball Lottery of Fear and Loathing is on TomKat. Their first interview on 20/20 about the joys of parenthood; their first medical emergency with Baby Suri in which Tom saves her life with a penknife, a stick of Juicy Fruit, and some dental floss; and their first, subsequent visit by social services on charges of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy--it's all infinitely more frightening than a little thing like global warming or holy warfare.

Thus, in future posts, I'll concentrate on the weightier issues of our times and forego the detritus of celebritydom.

Oh please. As if.

Semi (through my) colon

Let me just preface this post by saying that if the cookies promise no fat and no sugar, there's probably a catch. And that catch is that you will spend your entire evening with an internal combustion engine set loose in your colon.

Yes, I have been fooled by a consumer product once again and fooled in a most profound, can't-sleep-at-night, to-the-core-of-one's-being way. I discovered this seemingly innocent little snack cookie at the Giant last night, a little frilly treasure that has about four or five names, depending on how you interpret the packaging. That should have been my first clue for you can't really complain to the proper authorities about a violent assault on your person if you can't properly describe the culprit.

I've concluded that the cookies are more than likely known as "Heavenly Desserts" (ironic, gaggable, and not-so-vaguely Christian at the same time) and are manufactured by a company called "D-Liteful" (oh look, how cute, the hyphen takes the place of the letters "e-v-i"). They are "The Original Sugar-Free Fat-Free Meringues" with "New! Improved Flavors" (is that even grammatical?), with "Zero g Net Impact Carbs per Serving" (I'll be the judge of how much impact those carbs have, thank you), sweetened with Splenda®, "NO PRESERVATIVES" (because, frankly, nothing, not even a year's supply of Imodium® mixed into a colon-clogging paste with some Turtle Wax® is going to save you from the abyss), in vanilla, chocolate, lemon, cappuccino and something called "New Strawberry" (which is apparently located somewhere south of Old Strawberry and not too far from Strawberry Center).

I've also determined that eating more than a few of these is the equivalent of setting off a Molotov Cocktail with a Handgrenade Chaser in your lower intestine. I'm not sure why anyone would ever want to do that. Even the kids on an episode of Jackass were never quite that stupid 'cause everyone--but me--apparently knows that clobbering yourself in the family jewels with a 2 x 4 is far saner and more pleasureable than downing too many of these "Hellishly Deserted" treats.

I could blame it on the fact that I accidentally picked up a box of chocolate instead of vanilla or strawberry, which is what I really wanted. Or I could blame it on my own gluttony. Satan's shortbreads were so light and airy, so cheery and fanciful, I just figured what the hell, you're hungry, eat a lot of 'em (but not all of 'em), with no sugar and fat, what problems could Lucifer's little snickerdoodles cause you?

* * *
[Ring, ring]

[Ring, ring]

"Hallo? Ja, this is Doctor Faustus. Oh, it's you Herr Beelzebub! How nice of you to call."

[Indistinct murmuring]

"Yes, I did receive the cookies. How thoughtful of you to send them. I thought they were delicious."

[Indistinct murmuring]

"Oh, they signify that my contract is up and payment is due in full? But Herr Beelzebub, I thought that I had more--I'm sorry, Herr Beelzebub, but can I call you back in just a few? My stomach has suddenly become violently ill . . . ."

[Maniacal laughter]

* * *

I'll spare you the South Park-ian details, the screams, cries, whimpers, groans, deals with God--any God, heck, any dog for that matter--and grotesqueries that emanated from my guest bathroom from around 9 to 11 pm and then every two hours overnight, even with the assistance of Janitor-in-a-Drum-strength medicaments.

But in the clear light of day, with the tears wiped away from my eyes and the toilet bowl scrubbed clean, I now do know whom to blame: The morons who overdesigned the packaging and decided that a helpful bit of information like this--

"EXCESSIVE CONSUMPTION MAY HAVE A LAXATIVE EFFECT"

--doesn't warrant more prominent play.

I'm sorry, the use of quotation marks around the words "excessive" and "laxative effect" doesn't draw any more attention to the message, nor make it easier to, pardon me, digest. You can put 6-point Helvetica in all caps, but at the end of the day, it's still 6-point Helvetica.

Now, when it comes to marketing, I'm no 1970s-era Soviet Bloc Country with an overabundance of poorly executed, highly flammable baby clothes ready for export. I get how giving that kind of information more significant billing, no matter how essential to a satisfactory consumer experience, might have a detrimental effect on sales, not to mention the consumer's overall health and well-being.

But then it begs this question: How in the hell did some radical terrorist cell invade the baking industry in Medley, Florida, (even the corporate headquarters sounds perky!) and create these little jihad-flavored weapons of mass destruction?

Or if it's not a terrorist-themed plot to put us all on the crapper while crazed fundamentalists take control of our society and once we come out, come out wherever we are--weary, weak-kneed, and desperate for clean knickers--make us wear dour clothing, write backwards, and stick us with a Before Common Era understanding of human behavior and psychology (thus, the fundamentalists could be Islamic or Christian--they both basically have the same goal, anyway), then why oh why would any sane person create such a sphincter-blowing experience for human consumption?

For pity's sake, I know we all like to overindulge, and perhaps I'm just getting my comeuppance (in through the out door, as it were) for eating twenty of the thirty "pieces" (like it's a dadblasted board game! Operation for your undercarriage! Chutes and Ladders for your poopchute!) in the box. But bloody hell, the box only weighs 1.6 ounces! How could such a lightweight, innocent-looking, sweetly designed cookie made of two parts eggwhites, one part whimsy, and one part wuv-flavored meringue (not burlap, not steel wool, not pine bark, but *meringue*) wreak so much havoc on one person's digestive system?

I know this is more than you ever wanted to know about *my* digestive system, but still, for those of you who saw me today, it should explain a lot about my generally discombobulated state and why I disappeared every couple of hours in search of saltines, herbal tea, and grilled cheese.

*Groan.*

Maybe fewer dietary shortcuts and more exercise are the answer. Heaven(ly Desserts) knows, there's got to be a more sensible approach to weight loss than swallowing twenty small, live mortar rounds and letting them clear a wide path to freedom through your large and small intestines.

If you can name it, you can govern it: The Mysteries of Blogsburg, pt. 3

We have a really "interesting" and totally puzzling system of local government in the Commonwealth--the township and borough system. Every person, every building, every everything in the state, whether incorporated or unincorporated, belongs to either a borough or a township, not to mention a county.

I doubt I'll be explain this particular mystery to any level of comprehension. It's much like when my friend Smidgen tries to explain the Canadian electoral system to me ("riding? like in horseback riding?")--and gosh knows our friends the Canadians have given that system a work-out over the last year or so. Suffice it to say, Wikipedia does it better.

As with most things, no matter how odd it seems, there are some plusses and minuses to the system.

On the good side--everyone, regardless of location, has a local government, and a generally responsive one to boot. I regularly get mail--newsletters and announcements and the like--from my borough council, and there is real encouragement to participate in borough government, whether it's serving on the town architectural board, attending a town hall meeting, volunteering to help out at the local museum or library, or enjoying year-round recreational opportunities in the region or farther afield (my borough's parks and rec department runs trips to New York for shopping and plays all the time--who knew?). I would be surprised if every township or borough had these resources, but in the Harrisburg area, I do see other townships advertising meetings, public events, recreational opportunities, et al.

Now for the down side(s) . . .

Because there is more local government, your chances of a) running afoul of a traffic cop and b) being taxed for the privilege of a local government that funds all those police cruisers are far more likely. I've managed to evade and avoid the former so far, despite the strategic placement of that sneaky Upper Allen Township patrol car just beyond the PA 114 northern and southern entrances to U.S. 15.

Another down side . . . I can rarely follow the local news reports on TV or in the paper as they often reference obscure township names. Sometimes these names are unique; for example, the township of Paxtang, somewhere in Dauphin County. Paxtang, you say? What is that--a peace sealed by a toast made with the astronauts' favorite powdered beverage? I can hear Dubya in 2026, now a former president and elder statesman: "Today, we can all be grateful for the Pax Tang 'cause it brought an end to the not-civil war in Iraq. I am happy to have been a part of the solution, not the problem, to this, uh, problem."

At other times, the township names are not so unique. For example, there must be a squillion Hanover townships statewide, as well as at least one Borough of Hanover in York County. Odin bless our forevaders und foremutters, Herman and Heidi the Germans, for finding a name they liked and sticking with it.

Still, it could be worse. We could have been settled primarily by the Welsh. Limit one vowel per customer, please.

Recently, while celebrating my ninth month of living in the Commonwealth and my twentieth month of working here, I realized I had finally arrived when someone at my work place mentioned to me that they had been in a restaurant "in my neighborhood." They told me the name, I recognized it and recalled its location, and thought to myself, "No, actually, that's in Hampden Township, not in my borough." Brrrrr. Imagine the chilling effect that has on your psyche, that you actually have almost solved the latest Hardy Boys-meets-the Planning-Commission's latest tome, The Case of the Puzzling Pennsylvania Local Governance Structure.

Paxtang is only the tip of the orange-flavored iceberg, though. Here, you can't escape the conundrum of odd nomenclature, for we live on the verge of Amish Country with its famed communities of Blue Ball, Bird-in-Hand, Virginville, and, of course, Intercourse. I must admit, before I moved to Pennsy, I would get ever so confused when I would occasionally see a bumpersticker on a car that read, "I LOVE INTERCOURSE PA." I couldn't help but wonder why anyone would announce this to the world (isn't it kind of a given for most of us?), and in particular, to their father . . . .

The town names themselves, well, there's no mystery there, other than a "what were they thinking?" head-scratching kind. I'm sure the original settlers had their reasons. Instead, I think we should all just count our lucky stars that the Pennsylvania Dutch didn't get more specific when naming our communities. Otherwise, we'd all now be living in Missionarypositionville or Coitusinterruptusburg.

Baby, don't fear the Decider

Where do I begin on this one?

I haven't posted much lately, in part because my head has been elsewhere (and not entirely up my posterior, smartypants); in part because I found I was writing a lot about sex (those who can't seem to do, tend to write about it--this is why Bill Clinton has never written a trashy erotic thriller set in Japan and Lewis "Scooter" Libby has); but mainly because everytime I sit down to write, I end up with 10,000-word (OK, OK, OK, have it your way--20,000-word) essays on The Meaning of My Life, rather than just my usual sarky, snarky jibs and jabs at the world in which we live and vaguely tolerate. Yes, The World's Longest Midlife Crisis continues, but in a good way at the moment.

Which is better for you? Which is better for me? Would you prefer el verdadero mío, emotional war(t)s and all? Or more from the goyishe Henny Youngman of our time? I may have to start giving voice to All My Inner Sybils, including not just the Schecky Raplicious, but also the Unfiltered, Unadulterated, Unexpurgated Raplicious--or more simply, the Russian Cigarette Raplicious. Then you can decide for yourself.

Speaking of deciding, Our Fearless Leader held a press conference yesterday during which he defended one of his handlers, La Rummy. Maybe it's a case of Stockholm Syndrome, where, after a time, you start praising your captors--or maybe your captors know where all your drug paraphernalia, tax returns, and Alabama National Guard records are buried, and you decide to save yourself and go along with whatever they say. It was a rather impassioned defense, no?

My favorite part was the Georgina Bush Drama Queen Moment. We haven't had one for a while, and this was worth the wait:

I hear the voices, and I read the front page, and I know the speculation. But I'm the decider, and I decide what is best. And what's best is for Don Rumsfeld to remain as the secretary of defense.

And then La Bush promptly ended the press conference. I half-expected him to do a series of "snaps" in the shape of a "Z," flip his invisible hair, and sashay, chantay right out of the room.

Miss Thang! Tear it up! Girrrrrrllllllllllllllllllll, you go on with your bad self.

I had to look up "decider" in Webster's to make sure it was a real word--and it is. We know how Our Righteous Anger Mouse likes to improvise.

What should give everyone pause is Our Constipated Jefe's admission to "hearing voices." What gives, Oh Medium One in an XXL Disaster Caftan? Were you watching Angels in America on Logo over the weekend? Or have you been sharing a soda down at the Malt Shop with the Captain of the Nutball Team, Zacarias Moussaoui, The Class of '06's Most Likely to Be Schizo?

"Oh, Zackie, you're so dreamy!"

"Death to the infidel and all this American bullshit! By the way, Georgina, do you think you could free me when this trial is over?"

What should be a cause for celebration is that Our Blinky-Eyed Potentate finally admits to reading the papers, even if only the front page. At least he's not confessing his lifelong fascination with Snuffy Smith and Barney Google or Kathy. He probably should be reading Funky Winkerbean, though. The strips on the family separated over and over again by the war in Iraq are compelling.

What's the most maddening aspect of this for me is that now I keep replaying an old ABBA song in my head, "The Tiger," referring to it as "The Decider" and changing the chorus like so:

I am behind you, I'll always find you, I am the Decider
People who fear me never go near me, I am the Decider
And if I meet you, what if I eat you, I am the Decider
I am behind you, I'll always find you, I am the Decider
Decider, Decider, Decider!

Someone, anyone, please make it stop.

It does give me an idea, though. As if there weren't enough ABBA tribute and cover bands in the world already, what if we took the concept one step beyond and created the world's first ABBA tribute-cum-Political-Commentary band? Sort of a Svenska Capitol Steps. We could start out with the following playlist:

• "Super Trouper" becomes "Super Blooper"
• "My Love, My Life" becomes "My Loss of Life"
• "Arrival" becomes "Departure"
• "The Name of the Game" becomes "The Shame and the Blame"
• "Another Town, Another Train" becomes "Another Town, Another Unexpected Insurgency"
• "The Day Before You Came" becomes "The Day Before You Laid Waste to Our Constitution and Bill of Rights"
• "Does Your Mother Know" becomes "Does Your Father (the Former President) Know" or maybe "Does Dick Cheney Know"
• "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme (A Man after Midnight)"--recently sampled heavily and successfully by Madonna in "Hung Up"--becomes "Gitmo! Gitmo! Gitmo! (Flush the Qu'ran after Midnight)"
• "Money, Money, Money," "Soldiers," "Under Attack," "S.O.S.," "The King Has Lost His Crown," and "On and On and On" remain essentially unchanged

Yep, ol' Schecky-licious is back in town.

Vegas, baby!

Hail all. The des(s)ert nomad has returned from his wanderings. In addition to lost gold (I stink at slots), frankandernie (Avenue Q was excellent!), and Merv (well, no, I didn't see Merv Griffin, only John Fugelsang--the funniest, cutest VJ that VH1 ever employed), I bring you blurry photos and sardonic commentary from my recent sojourn to Sin City, U.S.A.

As our new best friends and economic rivals the Chinese have taught us, a picture is worth a thousand words--and, normally, I've got the wordprocessing skills and windbaggedness to prove it. Tonight, though, I want to keep this fairly short and moderately sweet, as I'm still suffering the effects of jet lag (plus, I want to catch the season one premier of Kath & Kim on the Sundance Channel). So I present you with one photograph that sums up the Las Vegas Experience for me.

For now, forget the Dale Chiluly glass sculptures and forgo the piquant humor of the Kinsey Sicks. Bypass the elegant gambling halls and say buh-bye to the Broadway-goes-Vegas spectaculars. Instead, concentrate on the message in the casino sign accompanying this post, which I spotted near Boulder City, Nevada, on the way back from a trip to Hoover Dam. That one picture speaks volumes--in flashing neon and blinking LEDs, no less--about Las Vegas.

One whole dollar just to defecate? A measly two dollars for someone to perform fellatio (or for our less sensitive viewers, a blowjob) upon one's person? As my friend the Gladman might say, "It's a world gone mad."

The Lost Wages of Sin--a city where the necessities are expensive but the sex is cheap. And in the latter case, let's pray that price is not indicative of quality.

Say amen to that.

Hola, Señor Manzana-Abeja: Pennsylvania Road Rules #2

(Editor's note: The road to Williamsport, continued.)

* * *

Amazingly, there are precious few restaurants or even fast food emporiums driving north along U.S. 15 between Blogsburg and Williamsport. South is another matter--there were dozens of nominally nourishing food purveyors along the way--but reversing direction to cross the jersey-walled highway to reach them, especially when, per usual, you've left just enough time to reach your destination and have just enough car insurance to replace your aging Subaru at its current value, becomes a death-defying, poorly inspected carnival ride act of faith. And ever since Jot the Dot went off the air, I'm just not that religious.

So my plans for stopping someplace quaint full of interesting and delicious Pennsylvania home-cookin'--bring on the chicken and waffles, but let's rethink the scrapple, please--were, well, scrapped while I waffled. Thus, given the meeting I was attending in Williamsport, I didn't get to eat lunch until afterwards, when I was on my way home in the late afternoon.

By then, most of the interesting lunch places I had seen on the way north that morning were closed. So in a fit of low-blood-sugared-induced desperation, I swung into the parking lot of an Applebee's outside of Lewisburg.

I'm not one of those food snobs who takes issue with most chain restaurants. Fast food, I'm less supportive of, because it tends to be bland and fat- and salt-laden, but a good dine-in chain restaurant will receive my galloping gorger's seal of approval (a stylized drawing of me, cheeks full, motioning someone off scene to bring more food and be quick about it, dammit), especially if I'm hungry and not in too much of a hurry. If given a choice, I'll take the non-chain option nine times from ten, but a place like Applebee's suits me just fine, especially when my other options appear most likely to promote ptomaine or, at the very least, repeated rest area visits.

Tasty, friendly, comforting, and, OK, sometimes fattening--what's not to like about Applebee's? Despite my constant dietary concerns, places like Applebee's and Ruby Tuesday's and, heck, even McDonald's have been making some efforts at portion, fat, calorie control. Applebee's offers a Weight Watcher's menu (sorry, Snappymack), Ruby Tuesday's lists calorie, carb, and fat counts, and McDonald's even offers fruit. Thus, I am here to praise the grilled chicken caesar salad, not to bury it.

What puzzles me a wee bit about Applebee's, at least the current culinary conception available in these parts, is the overwhelming predominance of Southwestern and Latin American-influenced cuisine on the menu. I quote:

• Fiesta Lime Chicken
• Fajitas con Sizzle
• Rio Rancho Sirloin
• Santa Fe Chicken Salad
• Nachos Nuevos
• Applebee's Cuban Ciabatta
• Tango Chicken Sandwich

Too late to worry about undocumented immigration from south of the border--clearly, the chefs at Applebee's are all mexicanos and all gay, too. (Fajitas con sizzle? Ay, dios mío.) Sort of a GOP worst case scenario, it would seem.

I wonder if in other parts of the country then, you get a different cuisine based on some sort of color wheel opposite of the predominant cuisine and culture in your area. I can imagine the late-night brainstorming session of the menu planning board now. "Let's see, Pennsylvania in the winter, hmmm, potatoes! kraut! pork ! . . . very brown! . . .and German! The opposite on the food wheel is . . . chile red and chartreuse! Looks like it's Mexican food for the Keystone State!"

Meanwhile, during the brainstorming session for the Texas menu: "Red, lots of red! jalapeños everywhere! and corn! . . . and beef! OK, that matches with . . . pastels . . . and heavy cream . . . milk-fed veal . . . and fussy, stuffed foods built into complex architectural structures. French cuisine for the Lone Star State!"

The meal was simple and satisfying--a filling (and probably heart-disease-beckoning) Southwestern Steak Chili and a I'll-just-have-a-small-grilled-chicken-and-green salad with a Diet Coke. Some yin and yang there--fill me up, but give me plenty of roughage to make it go away quickly. Lil ol' bipolar me.

I was a good boy and passed on dessert. Not that I wasn't tempted, especially since the company was paying, but there was actually nothing that appealed to me. Dare I speak this blasphemy? All the desserts seemed too rich.

There were the usual brownies, apple pies, and Holocausts by Chocolate, along with something called a "maple butter blondie," which makes me want to have a root canal just thinking about it. But the "that is so wrong" award, Arizona-themed cuisine division, goes to Applebee's own Apple Chimicheesecake.

Apparently, this is one of their own creations. One would hope nothing other than an evil capitalist enterprise with a yummy product line would be responsible for this:

APPLE CHIMICHEESECAKE

Crisp, tart apples and almond toffee bits blended with creamy, rich cheesecake wrapped in a tortilla and deep fried. Served warm with vanilla ice cream, caramel sauce and a sprinkling of cinnamon sugar. Ole!

Why, my goodness, it's me at my most desperate-to-PR. All it's missing is a cheery, "It's the chimi-cheesiest!" with some powder sugar-covered, gap-toothed, soulless 5-year-old with overbearing parents shilling it in posters from coast to bleeding coast.

I'm sure it's delish, no no, I couldn't, and all that, but I did not try it, I did not even attempt it. I feel plenty slipshod most days with my dietary restrictions, but even I've got to draw the line somewhere.

Apple chimicheescake, ferchrissakes. Who comes up with this shizzle? Is their chef one of those morbidly obese types who hasn't left the house since the late '80s because he/she is too big to get out the door? My heart goes out to you, dear, but spending your time dreaming up artery cloggers, garter snappers, and colon bunchers like the apple chimi ain't helping any of us.

Still the most outrageous part of the dessert--other than the fact they deep-fat-fry the sucker--is that they say "¡Olé!" at the end of the ad copy. ¡Olé! indeed.

As stupid as that is, it has inspired me. I've pretty much decided that for the next week, I'm going to end every conversation or email or supervisory reprimand with an alternately supportive/perky/stern "¡Olé!" At least until my employer directs me otherwise.

So ¡Olé! already. I'm outta here. Next stop, Las Vegas, baby, to visit with my friends Jean Naté and the Gladman. If all goes well, in a week's time, I'll bring you news and views from a differently sourced, freshly inspired Road Rules/Mysteries of Blog Vegas series.

Wish me well as I take in and try to make sense out of the greed, commerce, sin, and degradation.

As a casual, caustic observer, I can assure you.

¡Olé!

Happy new year! Now let's go drop a canal boat from the roof: The mysteries of Blogsburg, pt. 2

Maybe less of a mystery and just more of a curiosity than anything, Central Pennsylvanians love to drop big things from high buildings on special occasions. Specifically, they do the dropping on New Year's Eve and the item dropped is somewhat (somehow?) representative of communal pride. New York may have its Big Apple, Washington used to have its very sad and incredibly boring postage stamp, and Raleigh, North Carolina, may have its even sadder acorn (it's the "City of the Oaks," although everyone in my family thinks a giant chitlin' might have been a better, more representative choice), but Central Pennsylvania will always have its

• Wrench (Mechanicsburg)
• Chocolate kiss (Hershey)
• M&M (Elizabethtown)
• Strawberry (Harrisburg)
• Anchor (Shippensburg)
• Lollipop (Hummelstown)
• Huckleberry (New Bloomfield)
• Cigar (Red Lion)
• Canal boat (Liverpool)
• Pretzel (Cleona)
• Pickle (Dillsburg)
• Sled (Duncannon)
• Red rose (Lancaster)
• White rose (York)
• Black rose (and a little too S&M for my tastes) (Hanover)
• (And my personal favorite) Bologna (Lebanon)

(Editor's note: I wish I could take complete credit for this list; some of this I culled from a December 2005 article in the Harrisburg Patriot-News, my only source of information apparently. Some from the Wikipedia. And still more from friends and natives to the region.)

Yes, it's all plenty goofy and strange, and the reasons attached to some of the dropped item seem quite mysterious (sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, folks), at least if you're lazy like me and not willing to do any research into the matter. But you gotta love a part of the world that has a sense of humor and doesn't take itself too seriously.

Maybe if we all just dropped a few more bolognas, pickles, and canal boats from on high, we'd be a kinder, friendlier world.

Coombayah, coombayah.

North to Half-Baked Alaska: Pennsylvania Road Rules #1

It's "part" time in Blogtucky, as I seem to be able to do little else than write really long posts, then break them down into smaller parts for easier consumption.

The latest--a view from the road, namely U.S. 15, as on Monday I traveled north from Blogsburg to Williamsport and back. I'll do anything for my art, even drive through drizzle behind semis up very steeply graded hills to bring you yet another enchanting, family-friendly tale from the Keystone State.

Now let's get ready to read more about a state of the union and a state of mind I like to call Pornsylvania . . .

* * *

Like one of the few, homier moments from the TV show Twin Peaks, the day was misty, foggy, and slightly damp. The road traversed some lovely, more or less unspoiled countryside, kind of what I imagine Alaska or the Pacific Northwest looks like, only with craggier mountains and the occasional moose.

I kept thinking of Alaska and the Pacific Northwest the whole day long because of the beautiful, even dramatic scenery along the way--forest-covered mountains (yes, mountains, of the Mid-Atlantic, 1,000- to 3,000-feet variety); the winding, wide, and rocky Susquehanna; vertigo-inducing overlooks and awe-inspiring breaks of sun through the clouds; and quaint 18th- and 19th-century towns like Marysville, Liverpool, and Lewisburg, to name but a few.

Plus at my destination there is a culinary institute with a restaurant. I learned only about the restaurant after I arrived, too late for lunch. During the meeting that followed, as my stomach bitched and moaned as it realized it wouldn't get feed until after 3 pm, I kept thinking that maybe the students in the culinary institute had made Baked Alaska that day and perhaps a nice pot roast with carrots, parsnips, potatoes, and something green for contrast, and, drat my luck, I had just missed savoring it all.

Is it any wonder I'm perpetually whining about the need to lose 10 to 15 pounds?

Like many towns in the Pacific Northwest are today, Williamsport was once a lumbering center in the late 19th century. Now it just sort of lumbers, like a lot of by-the-wayside Pennsylvania towns.

Still, despite the quieter attitude, Williamsport is quite a charming city, full of restored Victorian homes and buildings, good shops, a Wegman's (say amen somebody!), and a lovely, mountain-hugged shoreline along the Susquehanna River.

I could have stayed a while and explored, but storms were on the way, and I wanted to get back home before the rains and winds hit. On the way out of town, the local college station, WPCT, reported that snow showers were possible that evening. So much for spring.

Turning our attention back to the day's Twin Peaks theme for a moment, being Pennsylvania, there's always more David Lynch than you wish would meet your eye. Roadside trash, ramshackle Bates Motels every few miles, midgets talking backwards, slutty girls in saddle oxfords tying cherry stems with their tongues, and, oddly enough, more "adult entertainment" than you could, um, shake a stick at.

Along the way of this 100-mile journey, I must have passed seven or so adult bookstores and at least three "gentlemen's clubs." Folks, I don't normally do math, but digest that statistic for a moment: That's a chance to get a lap dance or a "lube job" once every ten miles--a much higher rate than that recommended by most manufacturers. But who am I to offer you advice on tuning up your engine?

Amazingly, four or so of the bookstores were located within a very short distance of one another, the thirty miles or so between Duncannon and Selinsgrove. There's not a lot in this stretch of highway but beautiful scenery, a few villages, lots of truck traffic, and caution signs warning of Amish horses and buggies in the roadway ahead.

There's nothing quite like the Commonwealth for odd sensory juxtapositions. For on this trip, in the wilds of Juniata County just down the road from Ye Olde Horndogger's Shoppe, I finally saw my first Amish horse-and-buggy. The buggy was closely followed and soon passed by a perturbed motor vehicle driver, who squealed out from behind the slower technology to fast forward ahead to, oh I dunno, a 4 o'clock appointment with a scantily clad woman named Delilah.

I didn't even know the Amish inhabited this part of the state (does that sound especially dumb or un-PC? oh well . . . ); I just thought they were concentrated in Lancaster County, in Southeastern PA. However, one sees "plain folk" in traditional clothing all over Central PA--and no, that's not a dig at any Mid-Staters' timid, un-fashion-forward dress sense. Many of these plain people are Mennonites, not Amish. I'm not even going to try to explain all the variations on the theme of old orders and new orders among the Amish and the Mennonites. Let's just say that I have read the encyclopedia entries, and I remain confused.

But, in case you were wondering or jumping to the wrong conclusions, never the twains did met. I didn't see any horses and buggies at any of the adult bookstores or the gentlemen's clubs. As wild and crazy as rumspringa is alleged to be, somehow I can't imagine any Amish teen (or adult) breaking that many rules in one day. Being near electric lights, listening to loud music, and witnessing a bump-and-grind session in the presence of that much silicone--that's just asking for full-force shunning and no help the next time your barn burns to the ground.

Besides even if all the buggies are black and the horses are brown, wouldn't the Amish transport parked in front of Dimensionz--A Gentleman's Club kind of call undue attention to oneself?

Call me naïve, but I suspect the Amish and Mennonites aren't the audience for all this purveying of plumped-up flesh. Nevertheless, I'm pretty sure that some form of conservative, organized religion must be particularly strong in this part of the state and thus responsible for such an abundance of T & A, such a plethora of new boots and panties. How else could one explain it? State-sponsored inverse Potemkin Villages showing us at our worst rather than our best? Raging, slobbering male sexual desire? Lonely long-haul truckers?

Come now, it can't be that simple. Plus, given current events like "Perfect wife shoots, kills minister husband" and tales of any number of public officials caught with their pants down (literally, not figuratively), I can't help but favor the theory that "Talibantastic" religious fervor is responsible for all that is wrong, lewd, and weird in our little world. I never said I was tolerant of intolerance, peeps.

Regardless of the subtext, it seems plenty obvious that there is a wide load of horny men in the Heart of PA, who, I suspect, are all living large the adage, "Those who can't do, just look at the pictures and masturbate."

Every ten miles apparently.