Having a tough staying positive? You’re not the only one. At one time or another we all could use a little boost. Here are 5 simple tricks to help you get happy and stay happy.

1. Fake It Until You Make It

I’m not exactly sure why this works, but you can actually trick yourself into a better mood by simply faking a smile. The idea has gained a number of proponents in the psychological community since it was first proposed by Charles Darwin (as the Facial Feedback Hypothesis) in the late 19th century.

A fake smile feels unwelcome when you’re down, but within minutes, you’ll find it difficult to hold back a real smile. Once you get the a real smile going, other people tend to smile back and react to you more positively, boosting your mood even further. It’s a vicious cycle of happiness.

Well, folks, I’m taking the day off to enjoy the holiday with the family. Even though I will be ignoring the religious aspect of the holiday, I can assure you that the extra energy will be dedicated to getting jolly and spreading holiday cheer. Whether you’re celebrating or not, I hope you all have plenty to eat and can spend your time with people who love you.

Have a happy and safe holiday, and I’ll see you in a couple of days.

(Seriously, though. Is that not one of the best Mr. T pictures you’ve seen? I pity myself for not seeing it sooner.)

The Life of Riley is a weekly post that details my activities since I ended a thirteen year career as a corporate drone. These posts are usually long, personal, and geared more for my own memory than the reader’s entertainment.

6:12 AM

Got up, made the coffee. Started cleaning stuff, got bored once everything was in a series of piles. Had a bagel. Got #1GF! out the door to work. Started making a list of stuff that needed to be done. Couldn’t decide whether to brush my teeth or call for a haircut. Wondered why I was debating. Continued debating back and forth and finally opted for the haircut. Read my email. Paid some bills. Showered. Started updating my contacts list. Called a friend and asked him what people without jobs do. He said that I was asking the question two months too early.

10:30AM

I swore it was lunch time. Shut the air off and opened the windows. Talked to parents on the phone while eating an apple. Made more piles. Made myself a sandwich. Closed the windows and turned the air back on. Thought about taking a crap and then farted and gave up on the idea. Decided to go to the supermarket. Opted to go to the market that was 5 miles away rather than 4 miles because the drive is nicer. Wandered around with old people and ladies with kids. Wondered if I was the youngest shopper with a credit card in the store. Wondered why the old people were working and the shoppers weren’t. Wondered if anyone wondered why I wasn’t working.

3:00 PM

Brought in the bundles and cleaned the dishes. Caught up on some blogs while listening to my heavy metal high school playlist. Took out the trash. Got the mail. Tracked a package. Submitted a bug for the Democracy Player. Moderated a ton of channels over at their Channel Guide. Started wrestling with Python. Shut of the air and opened the windows again.

7:04 PM

Sat for an hour to watch Attack of the Show and have a cup of tea. Did a minimal number of pushups during the commercials.

9:56 PM

Moderated more channels. Answered more e-mails. Realized that I somehow just blew through my first day of being a hobo without really relaxing.

After going out to dinner with some friends on Tuesday, #1GF! got this voicemail message from them:

“Hey I just called to tell you that we had fun last night, and I wanted to let you know that we were talking about it and we think that Jon is probably one of the funniest people we know. We’re actually still laughing about it. And my husband told me that he thought you looked like you had lost some weight, not that you need to or anything.”

Even if she was just being nice, #1GF! and I agree that flattery will get you everywhere.

(It should be noted that now that these statements have been printed on the interwebs, said statements will henceforth and irrevocably be accepted as fact, due to the complete and truthful nature of all statements that appear on said interwebs, hitherto, wheretofor.)

Recently, while reading the latest corporate voodoo on how to get ahead, it dawned on me that it overlaps with some of the problogger voodoo on how to generate traffic to a website.

It Doesn’t Matter How Hard You Work…

Have you ever spent time writing a post that you were sure would bring in more traffic? Ever find yourself irritated as hell when crappy posts like “The Top 5 Nice Things You Can Say To Someone” gain incredibly hearty footholds in all the major news sites while your posts don’t get a single comment?

If you’ve been blogging for any amount of time, you probably have felt this way at one time or another.

It Doesn’t Matter Who You know…

Or maybe you spend your time pouring through sites trying to get on the cutting edge of music, games, or whatever your field of interest. Even though you might digest some of the tastiest links on the planet for your content, other bloggers can throw up 50 words about their baby’s new pajamas and get 426 comments more than you, none of which mention viagra, sex farms, or weight loss.

You’re not alone on this.

What Matters is Who Knows You.

Although we might not want to believe it, the thing that gets you ahead in both business and web publishing is not how hard you work or who you know, but rather who knows you. And who does know you? In my case, it’s four Chicagoans, two Canadians, and a guy from New Jersey named Chris. And maybe I’m at the top of my game. But what about all those bloggers out there who you read daily, never leave comments for, and laugh out loud at? I’m not talking about the major leaguers. Everyone knows about them. I’m talking about the unknowns: The Underbloggers.

How are people going to get to know them? For all the posts that they’ve donated to us, we could spend two minutes advertising for them.

I’ll start. Take a look at the list under “Blogs on the Radar” on the right. At least 20 hits a month on their feeds are coming from me because I read them every… damned… day. And even if they are little stats whores, they probably have no idea it’s me because I’m pulling their RSS feeds. And the list is full of good posts and interesting characters. There are ‘Vegas bartenders, DJ’s, strip club DJ’s, death metal loving Kung Fu masters, and even people from Chicago. Yes, Chicago.

Do me a favor. Drop a link to all those underbloggers you regularly read into the comments. If those bloggers check their stats, they’ll know someone appreciated them enough to do some free advertising for them. And any links to them will only help them in search engine rank and hopefully make them more popular.

And don’t feel shy about dropping a link to your own blog.

The first week of vacation was spent on Christmas and family related activities which was a heck of a lot of fun. To minimize their shopping effort, I had given my parents a Christmas list of CDs and even marked all the ones that would be really easy to find. I then promptly forgot about it. As I opened each CD on Christmas morning, I was like Grandpa Alzheimer, getting genuinely shocked that they had found all these obscure CD’s that I really wanted. My parents actually went through the trouble of only buying CDs from my list that I didn’t mark as easy to find, including a CD that was a compilation of songs from the only LP that I miss losing in my house fire. It was a compilation of early electronic “music” from the Columbia-Princeton Electronic Music Center. As if that wasn’t good enough, my sister got me a velvet painting of Mr. T, which now sits next to the first item removed from my burnt house: my Mr. T. head bank. Both now guard my living room against foo’s.

After Christmas, we tore into all of the new card and board games, and when we all weren’t trying to figure out the obscure rules to games like Munchkin and Killer Bunnies, my sister and I took stole a couple of hours to play co-op and head-to-head games of Guitar Hero II. There is a picture of the event floating around a memory card somewhere that perfectly expresses how we both felt at the time. I was seated and relaxed, my feet up and a pillow behind my back like an musician who needs a stool on stage. My sister, on the other hand, stood in a certified rock stance, with the pained and horrified expression of someone who was playing against the devil for their very soul. To even the playing field, I played expert to her medium, but I have to say that she solidly whooped me a couple of times.

After the first week, the Christmas festivities came to a close and my sister returned to her coast, leaving #1GF! and I with nothing to do but slow down and unplug. The average day would start by waking up naturally at 8 AM without nightmarish earworms being jammed into my brain by the one FM station that actually comes in on our clock radio. On the off chance that I chose to shower, the natural mental quiet would make the shower feel like a real shower, rather than the damp, looping, musical Chinese water torture that I face on most normal work days.

In the interest of conserving nature’s resources, I would usually skip the shower and transfer myself directly to the big, purple couch to enjoy breakfast and an episode of Jerry Springer. Afterward, a portion of the day would be spent on emptying the DVR, watching shows from Peekvid, or chipping away at six seasons of Trailer Park Boys.

My sister gave me three of the six seasons of the Canadian comedy on DVD for Christmas, and once we chewed through that hysterical shit blizzard, we watched the remaining three seasons by searching for them on Daily Motion (Shows are marked with season and episode numbers such like S01E01 for “Season 1 Episode 1″ so that you can watch them all in order.)

To tell you the truth, I may have overdosed on the show, because at one point while playing a web-based game, I told #1GF! that I sucked at the game because I could figure it “oot”. She stared at me and cautiously asked “Did you just…”
“I did,” I said, ” but I didn’t mean it.”

Somewhere around 2 PM, I would eat lunch, start talking like Bubbles from the show, and maybe remember to brush my teeth. Then, I would return to the couch until I got back into bed at 11 PM.

I didn’t think about work.
I didn’t check e-mail.
I didn’t blog.
I didn’t even turn on my PC.

And, now I have returned to the connected world once again. Welcome me back, bitches.

It’s no secret that I’ve been getting my hair cut from the same guy for the last 18 years. He doesn’t even ask me how I want it any more. He just cuts it, shaves my neck with a straight razor, and sends me on my way. I think it’s one of the few places that I’m a certified regular.

Today, his daughter brought in her 3 kids, who range in age from weeks to five years. When her mother would say things like “I hate that,” the middle girl, who is about two and as cute as a button, would chastise her for using “bad” words. While I was getting my neck shaved, she started sweetly singing, causing me to laugh so hard that I’m surprised that I didn’t get my head cut off. Before her mother stopped her she was singing,

“Shit is a bad wooooorrrd. Shit is a bad woooooorrrdd.”

I guess she made the song up earlier and had been performing it at the top of her lungs at a local department store before her mother had quieted her down.

While I was finishing up my first sun jar, my Dad called…

Dad: Hey, it’s my anniversary.
Me: [through a mouthfuls of snack mix] Right! Hey, happy anniversary! You going to dinner?
Dad: No, your mother’s gone out, and I’m going to my music lesson.
Me: Right. So, did you do something for your anniversary already? Go out to breakfast or something?
Dad: Actually, on the way to get coffee, I jokingly suggested to your mother that we go into Walgreen’s and pick out a couple of cards for each other…
Me: Uh huh…
Dad: And she took me up on it.
Me: Okay…
Dad: Yea, we went in, picked out one serious card and one funny card each, gave them to each other, read them, said ‘Happy anniversary’, and put them back.
Me: No, way.
Dad: Yea. It was actually pretty cool.
Me: Wow.

Saturday

What do you get when you combine a wireless mouse, a PC that’s hooked up to the TV, and a bunch of flash based games? In my house, you end up with a stinky, bleary-eyed couple who skips showering and orders out for food because they are so focussed on beating each others scores. Good times. Gooooooood times.

Sunday

After washing off a days worth of gaming stink, we raided Michael’s and Home Depot, gathering ideas for all sorts of new and useless projects to eat spare brain cycles. Although we did not go so far as to buy a soap making kit, we bought plenty of stuff that will probably end up being pulled from the back of a closet in a couple of years with a quizzical, “Now, what the hell did we buy this for?”

For the last 3 nights, teenagers have been keeping you awake all night by getting screaming drunk at the complex pool. You’re getting old enough that you want to call the cops, but not that old that you don’t want to jump the fence and beat the fuck out of each and every one of them.

It’s not all the kids’ fault, though. Part of the tired is because you have been going to the gym every day for the past 40 days in a row. You have absolutely no reason for this behavior. You’re not training for anything, you’re not stressed about anything, and you really don’t give a flying fuck about six pack abs. I am betting you don’t make 10 more days because the fat kid in here really wants a cookie.

Even though you’re not really enjoying the gym, you did enjoy the second annual Hull outdoor car show this weekend. They picked the perfect weather to close off the main strip and line it with hot rods. Because the event was free, you were surprised by the number and variety of cars. You saw ZZ-Top style ‘33 Fords, Big Daddy Roth style T-buckets, a dragster with a parachute, and a ‘74 Dodge Swinger with a 6 barrel carb that nearly made your dinky move. You saw some Ferraris, a Lamborghini Murcielago, 2 Lotus Esprits, 2 Lotus Elises, some 50’s Chevys, and a tricked-out El Camino with an assload of hydraulics.

When #1GF! saw the El Camino, she looked at you and proclaimed very matter-of-factly that it was Krunkin’. You told her that she had no idea what she was talking about, to which she proclaimed that she did. She went further to tell you that it was still krunkin’, despite any protest you could make. You didn’t think that this was right, but you had no idea what the fuck krunkin’ even meant, so you were not on very good ground to debate. Plus, she had already walked away grinning to look at a chopped down Ford.

While standing there alone listening to all the gearhead chatter, you realized what it must be like for a person who knows a little about computers to listen to you talk. You figured you must make people pretty tired.

You saw a lot of really professional show cars, but you also saw a bunch of cars that looked like they could’ve been parked on the street from the night before and people just assumed that they were in the show. You noticed that one of them even had crumbled Cheezits in the door handle, which prompted you to consider paying the $12 to bring your EVO down without so much as washing it. You were also going to make claims that it had extensive “megatronics” and ran on a mixture of “rice and Jesus.” Any questions about the collection of swimming trophies in front of it were to be answered with a simple “Fuckin’ A.”

(Un)Fortunately, you did none of this because you were too damned tired from the gym.

(Remind yourself to read this next year to get the KrunkMobile ready for the 3rd annual car show.)

A little under a month ago, I was looking for a way to get rid of my old CDs without going the route of getting completely screwed by trading them in the local used stores. I thought that there should be a way to create a site that allowed one for one CD trades from a giant pool. If you put a CD in, you get one out. The only thing that I was stopping me (besides knowhow and time) was that I couldn’t figure out how I was going to cover all of the shipping costs from the pool.

While googling for a solution, I found that there are already a bunch of sites that already do this. Some sites required me to price my CDs using “site bucks”, which seemed like a waste of time: If I want to e-bay a CD, I’ll e-bay for cash. Others just seemed like they were an online version of the brick-and-mortar CD trade rip-off. The only site that I found that seemed aligned with my original vision was Lala.com.

The way Lala works is that you add the CDs that want to trade, and then add the CDs that you want to receive. When someone has a CD that you want, they accept the trade, pop it into a Lala.com shipping envelope, and mail it to you. When you confirm that you received the CD and it was playable, the sender gets credit for a sent CD and are eligible to receive a CD from their want list. At the end of the month, every CD that you confirmed received costs you $1.49, which is charged to your credit card. In effect, a new CD costs you a CD you don’t want plus a buck fifty. To me, it was a simple solution that seemed way better than I could do in any used store, so it was worth a look.

I did some research, and found out that Lala is backed by $9 million in venture capital and has been all over some of the more reputable news sites for the last few months, so I weaseled my way into a closed beta and listed a few of the CDs that I had laying around. Literally, within 5 minutes of signing up, I had gotten rid of a CD which had been mulling around my CD collection for 15 years without a listen. I couldn’t believe that someone wanted it. From there, I have made 15 trades: 8 sent, 5 received, 1 in transit, and 1 lost in the mail. Because Lala guarantees the trades, the CD lost in the mail was resent to me from someone else. You gotta love that.

The site does have a couple of drawbacks. People are only required to send a CD that plays the whole way through without skipping. If you are meticulous about keeping your CDs from being scratched, you quickly find out that the rest of the world is not like you. Some people seem to keep their CDs under the seat of their car or in a sandbox. As long as the CD that they send you plays, you are required to accept it.

A bigger problem is that Lala does not officially support the sending of liner notes or the tray card. They only require that you send an original, non-promotional CD. If you want to send liner notes along, you must affix an additional 24 cent stamp to the pre-paid envelope. And the only incentive to do this is because you want to. For most people, this isn’t enough of an incentive, but I send them along because I would want someone to do the same for me. And sometimes people do, and sometimes they don’t.

So far, I’ve sent 8 clean CDs with liner notes. In return, I’ve received 5 CDs:

• 1 bare CD, seemingly stored in steel wool, but playable,
• 1 CD with front covers (no tray card), slightly banged up, but playable,
• 1 CD with front covers (no tray card), unplayable (to be replaced), and
• 1 pristine CD with full art and tray card (originally lost in mail)
• 1 relatively clean CD with full art and tray card

It may look like I payed $6 to give away more than I got, but I think the key is that I traded away eight pristine CDs that I hated and got three that I enjoy. I’m a big fan of liner notes, but I have to ask myself if they are really worth the extra $9 when there are tons of sites out there like covertarget or cdcovers.cc where I can download them, if I need to.

I don’t like recommending things that cost money, but do I endorse Lala.com? Given the fun-factor of the trading, and the low cost of the trades, I’d have to say that I do.

If you want to give Lala a try, I have 10 invites to give away. It’s no longer a closed beta, so anyone can join by just going to the site, but if you use one of my invites, I get a T-shirt or some crap. If you need a little more incentive, Lala gives you your first CD free (but after that you have to provide a credit card to trade further).

Drop me a mail if you’re interested, and happy trading…

I would’ve spent some time writing something witty or informative, but I accidentally bought Guitar Hero this weekend, and it’s eating all of my free time.

I thought this would be the dumbest game ever (especially for someone who has a real guitar), and it is, but I have to say that even at a hefty $70, it’s easily one of the most fun games I’ve owned on the PS2.

Need a second opinion? Ask non-gaming #1GF! or my non-gaming parents if it’s fun. They’re not here now, but I can assure you that they enjoyed it.

Guitar Hero 2 is due in the fall, which is about the time when I should finish this one.

Has anyone played multi-player?

I really gotta go. Virtual rock is awaits.

meedly meedly meedly

So, this past weekend we drove up to New Hampshire to see #1GF!’s niece perform in a dance recital. Given that I have had testicles since birth, I was sort of against doing the dance recital thing, but there was no real way to attend the niece’s birthday party while missing the recital. I really think it was cleverly planned as a package deal by the womenfolk of the family.

On the drive up, we noticed that on the official Cow Hampshire border sign, they’ve replaced the slogan “Live Free or Die,” with “You’re going to love it here.” I don’t know who pulled off that slight of hand, my friends, but being allowed to pussify the U.S.’s most kick-ass state slogan is like jamming Mr. T. into pink hot pants, calling him Mr. Theresa, and thinking no one would notice or care. And I pity that shit, my friends. I pity it to hell. Once they slip the death reference out of the slogan, it won’t be long before they’re forcing bikers to wear brain buckets and charging sales and income taxes. Then, Taxachusetts citizens will have no taxless, barbarian neighbors to the North to threaten our officials with, and we’ll all end up at the mercy of big government. So, do us all a favor and put the damned slogan back before you wreck everything.

Anyway, once we were safely “loving it” across the border in Massachusetts’ fastest growing new suburb, we headed to #1GF!’s niece’s dance recital which was to be attended by the little one’s teacher, “Miss Alexis,” who I would only refer to as “Missile X’s” complete with missle sounds and forearm crossing, superhero exploding X noises (for the kids benefit of course).

I have to say that I was a little confused when we were actually introduced to Missile X’s because in my day, an elementary school teacher was a pudgy, middle-aged woman in a long skirt and stubby heels who was addressed by her last name, not her first. Given the number of years that I was a recipient of a fine, public education, when I’m set to meet a teacher, that’s what I’m expecting. If you introduce me to a nice looking twenty-something with a nose ring, I’m going to retreat in confusion and just listen to the drums to “Hot for Teacher” that have involuntarily filled my head until drowned out by whatever Shirley Temple music the recital happens to start with.

Once the show started, I spent a lot of time laughing my ass off at the really young kids who couldn’t have been corralled into a routine even if they could’ve been stopped from waving. In the middle of thoroughly enjoying the sixth or seventh act in a row, I suddenly thought to myself, “Oh fuck. Have I finally crossed that age where I actually like dance recitals? Shit, I think I have. Double shit. From here it’s only a short jump to putting the hat collection in the rear window of my car or stuffing rolls and sugar packets in my pockets at restaurants. We can safely say that if I ever had a temporary visa to Coolsville, someone, somewhere officially just tore it up for good.”

Then, at some point toward the end, the recital got a little weird. I’m no prude, but when pre-teen girls start doing gyrating booty-shaking dances to thump-thump music, I get a little embarrassed. When it happens in the middle of a dance recital, I now know that I officially get creeped out. The girls looked as uncomfortable dancing as people were watching it, and I just sort of stared at the floor until the whole thing was good and over. If I get a vote, I’m voting that we save that shit for the buxom, legally-aged glitter critters at the Conference Room Mashpee.

After the recital strangely and abruptly ended without the expected bowing encore, we headed back to the cabin for the birthday party. The kids are always a blast, and I think my favorite moment was when one niece wearing green pajamas turned to the other and said, “Hey. Make pretend that you hate green,” and then ran out of the room squealing, chased by a sister who for that moment suddenly sought to destroy anything green. I love it when kids come up with strange things like that.

Soon after, we had to hop in the car to start the long trek back to home, leaving me to reflect on the day in between picking CDs to keep #1GF! calm in the nighttime downpour that invariably seems to manifest itself on the ride home from the state formerly known as “Badasssss.”

As is usual for Thursday afternoons, I was sitting around today getting pitied on the PS2 by Mr. T. and taste testing whatever Tiffani Amber Thiessen happened to be baking in the kitchen, when who showed up at my door but Def Leppard’s drummer, Rick Allen.

Seriously. I haven’t seen Rick since probably 1986 when we tried to form a side project called “Jam Band Joey,” which was relatively short-lived when we both admitted that we hated jam bands. And twenty years later, here he was at my door.

After having a couple of Tiffany’s muffins and reminiscing a bit, I happen to mention to Rick that my friend Pete was out of work with a shoulder injury. I told him what a pain it was to channel Lorne Greene to get him to sign something to cheer Pete up, when Rick, the total kick-ass guy that he is, said that he would be glad to sign a picture for Pete. The only thing that I had to promise was not to tell Def Leppard’s singer, Joe Elliot, about Pete’s ailment the next time he called. I promised, and he made me promise again, which I did, and he gave me this picture leaving me and T to finish our championship game…

Don’t ask me how he found out, but within hours, I got an e-mail from Joe Elliot with a picture attached requesting that I forward it to Pete, as well.

So, Pete, If you’re reading, all of your friends and half of Def Leppard wish you a speedy recovery.

I worked 40 hours in 4 days, then had a 3 day weekend on which I ripped 50 CDs, drove 2 hours to Maine to buy 2 pairs of socks, and had 3 people over. On Easter, we made 12 blueberry muffins, 2 quiches, 2 pounds of potatoes, 1 pound of bacon, and a tropical fruit salad.

Tropical Fruit Salad:

Chop into bite sized chunks and put into a big bowl:
4 kiwis
3 oranges
2 mangos
1 pineapple

Make the juice:
Thaw 1.5 cups of frozen strawberries and throw in a food processor with 1 tablespoon of sugar
Blend until you have a strawberry liquid

Put it all together:
On the bottom of a bowl put a few scoops of strawberry yogurt.
Cover with fruit
Drizzle strawberry juice on top

Grab your balls or talk about NASCAR before anyone accidentally calls you Brenda or Nancy.

How was my birthday weekend, you ask? Well, I got out early on Friday and wisely spent the found time enjoying lunch and meandering through the local Circuit City with my coworkers. After we went our separate ways, I headed over to the nearest record store to pick through every used CD they had. I think I left with a half dozen for pretty short money.

Because another of my bastardly co-worker gave me a CD of covers (his third full-length contribution to the CD Challenge), I spent the first half of Saturday combing through my collection trying to come up with a decent response. After breaking a hundred tracks, I realized that I might have been obsessing a bit (like the Cowbell and Actors-turned-singer Collections) and sought out a bar of soap and a comb. I then got a nice visit from #1GF!’s Mom, who brought me gifts and homemade lemon squares. After chowing myself silly, #1GF! and I headed to my parents house for lasagna and board games. There, I got the gift of laughter, which I fully understand, and the gift of fashion, which I obviously do not. Lemon squares + lasagna + laughter = a pretty kick ass day.

On my actual birthday, #1GF! and I drove all the way down to the Cape for the sole purpose of hitting a used record store. I suppose we could’ve gone in town and hit way more stores, but the sun was shining and I was less interested in buying CD’s than enjoying the company. After such a nice ride, #1GF! was really good about letting me go about my business and even cut me off at the register to buy me the half dozen CD’s that I picked out. On the way home, not only was she really good about listening to the sappy stylings of Nat King Cole, but almost seemed to enjoy her first listens to Face to Face and the New Bomb Turks.

In a punk pop stupor, I forced #1GF! to drive me all the way back to the Abington Ale House, where you get your dinner free on your birthday. I had never had a free birthday meal before, so I thought it would be sort of cool in an “I’m 97 years old, where’s my free tapioca” sort of way. Everyone knows that you get a free birthday meal in the Ale House, so when it’s your birthday, there are a bunch of other cheap pikers around you that are having birthdays, too, which I thought was pretty cool. There was a little 12 year old girl having a party, there was crotchety, old man Sheldon behind me, and there was “Jimmy A.”

Jimmy A. was a heavy-set, middle-aged guy who wore a black baseball cap sitting high on his head like an old veteran might wear. He was sitting with another heavyset guy with thick glasses who looked like he might be more of a responsibility than someone he normally went out for drinks with. He was sitting right across from us, and for 90% of the meal he was merely a part of the background scenery.

After the waitress (who was a complete sweetheart) cleared away my chicken pot pie and delivered a cup of pudding with a candle in it, she sang “Happy Birthday.” When she was finished, “Jimmy A.” came over, introduced himself, and wished me a happy birthday, too. He then told me it was his birthday, and shook my hand like some old guys do to old friends, where they sort of shake with one hand and slap the back of your hand with the other. He then wished me well, and went back to his table and resumed his free dinner. It was oddly fucked up and really nice at the same time. And that little gesture made my dinner. Well, that and the free pudding.

Like a couple of 90 year olds, #1GF! and I were on our way home by 6:30 to wind down and watch a little TV. After we went to bed, I stayed awake until long after my birthday was over, staring at the red glow of the alarm clock and thinking about how lucky I am to have made it another year.

(Because I’m not really good with the phone, I just listened to all my birthday messages and laughed my ass off. Thanks!)

Proof I’m Getting Old

1. At the gym, when rolling back to do some dumbell bench presses, I heard enough rapid fire, muffled cracking noises that it sounded like someone had lit a whole pack of firecrackers inside my chest cavity. In truth, it sounded like Chinese New Year in there.

2. I don’t have a myspace page, and I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Further proof: I can’t fucking believe I just used “fuss” in a sentence.

3. When I recently saw the year a person had to be born in to buy cigarettes, I realized that it was the same year that I made out with that fat chick in the 3rd row at the Monsters of Rock Concert. Even after all these years, you still suck, Dan Dokken.

4. On my way out the door this morning, I got frisked by #1GF!.

Me: What are you doing?
#1GF!: [matter of factly] Seeing if you have your phone.
Me: So, you frisk me? Couldn’t you just ask me? When exactly did I cross that age when my answers are suspect enough that you have to pat me down rather than ask?

5. My 34th birthday is in 5 days.

6. When I was assigned seat #69 in a work move, I didn’t high five anyone.

Proof I’m Still Young

1. My sister sent me a birthday card on which she not only changed the “You’re 4!” to “You’re 34!” but she didn’t even attempt to conceal that the card was originally sent to a four year old by someone named “Aunty Dora.” Instead, she just penned in “+ your sister” right below Aunty Dora’s signature. People do not do that sort of thing to their respected elders.

2. I still have a blog, it has a skull on it, and I’m a l33t hax0r with mad sk1llz.

3. I think they should stop trying to raise the driving age, start trying to lower the drinking age, and make shirts illegal.

4. #1GF!’s final response to point #4 to above: “I just pat you down whenever I get the chance.”

5. I’m still hoping to be able to sock away enough to be able to afford the naughty nurse in addition to the skilled one when they put me in the home in 30 years.

6. When I got assigned seat #69 in a work move, I wanted to high five everyone.

Because she makes me believe that I’m more than I see in the mirror every morning, I wish I had put together something better for #1GF! this Valentine’s Day. All I could come up with this year were kiddie gifts: a load of flowers, home-made burritos, and a mix CD. I should also be noted that I was working on the CD until well after #1GF! got home. I’m lucky that she has low expectations because I was 4th and inches on a macaroni heart card or seeing if the local pizza shop would arrange the pepperoni on a pizza in the shape of a heart.

Ladies, thank your stars that I’m taken…

#1GF! Valentine’s Day Mix 2006

1. Unknown - The Love Boat Theme
2. Bobby Darin - Dream Lover
3. The Flamingos - I Only Have Eyes for You
4. The Platters - Only You (and You Alone)
5. Barry White - Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe
6. Ella Fitzgerald - Love Is Here To Stay
7. Prince - I Wanna Be Your Lover
8. Jack Johnson - Cupid
9. Ray Charles - Night Time Is The Right Time
10. Billy Joel - Just The Way You Are
11. Stevie Wonder - Isn’t She Lovely
12. The O’Jays - Love Train
13. Wilson Pickett - I Found A True Love
14. Clyde McPhatter - A Lover’s Question
15. Blacktop - Tornado Love
16. The Cure - Lovesong (Extended Mix)
17. KC And The Sunshine Band - Keep It Comin’ Love
18. The Beatles - Love Me Do
19. Jackson 5 - The Love You Save
20. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - Our House
21. The Ohio Players - Love Rollercoaster
22. Aretha Franklin - Baby I Love You
23. Louis Prima/Keely Smith - Embraceable You/I Got It Bad And That Ain’t Good (Medley)
24. Frank Sinatra - You Brought A New Kind Of Love To Me

I am just an average white guy, but because I grew up in a city with the largest Asian population on the South Shore of Massachusetts, I have developed a propensity for Japanese cars, ginger candy, Vietnamese soup, green tea, sushi, and white bitches. I’m picky about Chinese takeout, but if you get me anywhere near an Asian market, I will clean out their candy aisle, no matter how strange. This has led some of the guys at work to jokingly refer to me as the “honorary Asian.” According to them, I own a mythical drift racing team called Combo #5 Racing, and will one day put “White Devil” across the hood of my car in Japanese.

It’s all in fun.

But last Thursday, I found a Lai Si for Tet on my desk. A Lai Si is a little red envelope with money or candy in it that married people give to single people for luck at occasions like weddings, Chinese New Year or Tet. In the 33 years and gajillions of Asian people I’ve been around, I’ve never gotten one. Even though it’s just a little envelope with a piece of candy in it, I was pyched to be one of the two people who got one. I actually felt honored.

It’s the little things, folks.

(Note: Sunday is Chinese New Year. It will be the year of the dog. Don’t forget to check your local paper to see if there’s a dragon or lion dance to see.)