If You Build It, They Will Spit

I know there's no crying in baseball, but what's up with all the spitting? Every time I watch a game on TV, the camera will zoom in on one of the players just as he's spitting something gloppy and nasty out of his mouth. Sometimes there'll be a close-up of a guy who actually has strings of drool dangling from his lips. Nice.

And it's not just the guys who keep matzo ball sized wads of chewing tobacco inside their mouths. They all do it, and they do it all the time. Before batting, before pitching, standing in the outfield, or just lounging in the dugout. It doesn't matter. Baseball is like a big, gross spit-a-thon.

And then there's the whole gnarly sunflower seed thing. If you watch closely, you'll notice ball players have a habit of throwing fistfuls of unshelled sunflower seeds in their mouths, cracking them open with their teeth, eating the seeds, and then letting the shells cascade out of their mouths.

I sure hope none of these guys are involved in paternity suits because every ball field is one giant DNA paradise.

I See Dead People

There's an exhibit at the San Diego Museum of Man that I wish I could see. It's called Bodies - The Exhibition and it's an in depth look at the human body and all its parts.

Why can't I see it? Because I'm a blood-and-guts wimp, and the idea of seeing a real live (well maybe not live) cadaver all opened up makes me light-headed. And not in a good way.

I've had a couple of medical procedures done where the doctor offered to set up a monitor so I could watch every grisly moment. Being drugged, strapped down and cut open, and then watching it all happen is just way too Hannibal Lecter for me.

Being a wimp is really disappointing; I'd love to see that exhibit. I'm sure it's fascinating and I'd probably learn a lot. And I could participate by giving a live demonstration of the art of human regurgitation. But I'd probably lose my museum pass.

It's Massachusetts, Baby

Three years ago, former Massachusetts governor, Mitt Romney, expressed his concern that his once Pilgrim-ridden state would become the Las Vegas of gay marriage.

And I'm still waiting for the white clapboard drive-thru chapels with John Alden impersonators performing an assembly line of homo nuptials.

But leave it to Ellen Goodman to put it all in perspective.

Driving Miss Moses

The Pope recently issued the 10 Commandments of Driving. At first I thought this was a joke. I mean, is he kidding? Roman drivers aren't exactly all about road rules. Just try to merge into one of their traffic circles. It's like one never-ending chariot race.

And what about the Jews? Where are our 10 Commandments of Driving? Now, if it were up to me, these might work:

*When two (straight) couples drive together, the men sit in the front and the women sit in the back

*Consult at least three different maps because the directions from your car's fancy schmancy GPS are probably wrong

*Drive 5 miles under the speed limit just to be safe

*Leave an hour earlier than necessary because "you never know"

*Wear clean underwear incase you get into an accident

*Don't take the shortcut

*When you come to a four-way stop, argue with all your passengers about who has the right of way

*Even though your 13-year-old son is now a man, he still can't drive

*If Bubbe can't see over the steering wheel, it's time to take away the car

*Driving on Shabbat is okay if you don't live near the rabbi

*Bring a little sweater

Paging Dr. Heimlich

Can someone please explain to me why some sushi rolls are so darned big? I eat a lot of sushi and sometimes the rolls are comfortably bite-sized, but other times I feel like I'm wrestling with a seaweed wrapped hockey puck.

And even though you're supposed to eat the whole piece at once, I was always taught that it's not polite to jam your mouth with food, so the only way I can consume one of these monster makis is to take it apart. But then it becomes a big mess, and I end up flailing around in my soy sauce like I'm fighting a rip current.

There's probably some secret sushi eating technique that Japanese kids are taught as soon as they begin teething. If you have any suggestions, let me know.

Me Talk QWERTY One Day

I'm so envious of people who can type quickly while not looking at the keyboard. I hunt and peck with my two index fingers and, although I'm pretty fast, I'm not very accurate, even though I look right at the keys. I think my fingers are faster than my brain.

So if I get a 4.0 in traffic school, I may reward myself with a typing class. And if I do really well in typing class, maybe I'll take a cooking class. That is if I get the okay from the fire department.

Highway Robbery

Now I know how the city of San Diego is attempting to climb out of bankruptcy. The court fees for my recent red light ticket came to $409. And that's before traffic school.

Give me a break! I didn't steal the freakin' traffic light, I drove through it.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

I think I've sat shiva long enough for Tony Soprano. It's time to let go and move on. But there's a group of diehard fans out there who insist on picking apart the symbolism of the final scene in the diner that's followed by a disconcerting 10-second black screen.

Just like everybody else, I had a WTF moment when I thought the DVR had stopped recording before the episode ended. But David Chase added that final ellipses to let us come to our own conclusions.

Was Tony shot? Was he indicted? Were the onion rings any good? And who listens to Journey anymore?

One theory is that the shifty-looking guy in the tan Members Only jacket who goes to the men's room as the scene ends does a Michael Corleone and shoots Tony when the screen goes dark. After all, when Tony and Bobby were sitting in a boat on a lake a few episodes back, Bobby tosses us a bone when he says, "At the end, you probably don't hear anything, everything just goes black."

I think if you're really losing sleep over this then you should get out the Ouija board and ask the spirits. Oh, and while you're at it, find Jimmy Hoffa.

Don't Ask Don't Tell...Don't Stop

This is something I used to wish for when I was at (all girls) summer camp.

Apparently, several years ago, the U.S. Military looked into a "non-lethal" chemical weapon that would cause enemy troops to become homosexual, find each other irresistable, start a major shtup fest, and forget about fighting.

I think we should try it out on the red states first and see how it works on the gay marriage issue.

I'm Just A Squirrel Who Can't Say No

Apparently, the squirrel population in San Diego's Balboa Park has gotten so out of hand that park rangers are giving female squirrels birth control pills. Guess they couldn't find any teeny, tiny condoms for the boys. And if I hadn't heard this from a police officer, I would've thought it was just another nutty urban legend.

At first the park service was using poison to stop the squirrel explosion, but other forms of wildlife were dying, too. Duh!

Wild Bunny #1: This looks yummy!

Wild Bunny #2: Oh, don't eat that. It's squirrel poison.

So several dead rabbits later, someone came up with the bright idea that if they could offer the squirrels worry-free shtupping, there'd be fewer varmints to deal with.

I can just imagine what it's like chasing down a bunch of squirrels every day and then trying to give them pills. How can you tell if you've given each and every girl squirrel her pill? And what if one of the smarter ones squirrels away all her pills in a tree somewhere and then sells them on eBay?

But here's what really puzzles me: Why in heck is the city spending money on squirrel birth control when an abstinence program would be so much cheaper?

I Wuz Framed

Actually, I was in several frames courtesy of the San Diego Police Department. I got nabbed by one of those sneaky red light cameras. And as much as I'd like to deny it was me, there I am in full color gripping the steering wheel with a WTF look on my face. The other three photos show my car going through the intersection as the light turns red. Nice.

I was sure it was yellow. Or amber, at least. And this whole red light camera thing is so Big Brother. Luckily, it was a good hair day.

At first I thought the big flash from the camera was a bolt of lightning since I'd promised not to run another red light the last time this happened. And then I thought it was the lights of a police cruiser signaling me to pull over. During the last alleged red light incident, I had the opportunity to argue with an actual cop. I think he also cited me for driving in pajamas (it was very early), but that's another story.

So now it's back to traffic school where I'm sure there'll be a three-hour section on how to distinguish primary colors.

The Feeling Is Mutual

Here's the latest buzz from the joy toy department. Apparently, the Vibrating Ring makes everybody happy.

Think about it. This could really soup up your Jildo.

And why does this sort of thing always end up in my mailbox? (That was a rhetorical question, by the way. No need for any smartass answers.)

Bada Bing Bada Boom Bada Gone

They're whacking everybody. And I mean everybody. Christopher, Bobby, and Sylvio are all gone. The final episode of "The Sopranos" airs next Sunday, and I've already put the black wreath on my door. Symbolically. Jews don't do wreaths, but you know what I mean.

I'm not a big TV fan, but I love "The Sopranos." I love all that existential angst layered on top of "this thing of ours." The way Tony and his boys spit out their words in that melodic (to me, anyhow) north Jersey accent. The way pious Carmella rationalizes her opulent lifestyle and stands by her man.

And the way David Chase, the show's creator, made so many of us sympathize with a bunch of misogynistic killers who all seem to have hearts of gabagool.

But next week it's all over. And we know Tony's going, too. Either by his own hand or by a hailstorm of bullets from a few of Phil's goombahs. Tony's a very bad guy and we all know what goes around comes around. But do we really want him to go away forever?

Fuggedaboudit!

Losing My Religion

I'm so tired of having Jehovah's Witnesses ringing my doorbell and asking if I'd like a pamphlet about Jesus. And I appreciate the whole freedom of religion thing, but some religions seem to have more freedom than others. But I digress.

I know these people have the right to go door to door selling Jesus, but I hate hate hate it when they ring the doorbell of a house with a mezuzah. Hello? We're Jews. We're not looking to switch teams. If you're such a big religious scholar then you should be able to recognize Hebrew.

And that thing on my doorpost isn't a crack pipe with a note from my mom inside.

A Whole New Meaning for Woody Woodpecker

Need to rekindle your relationship? Maybe a Jildo is just what you're looking for.

To be honest, it looks like someone got the bright idea to saw off a bedpost in the heat of passion. And what are you supposed to use for lube? MinWax? But I understand the Jildo is giving its silicone counterparts, er, stiff competition.

I guess some people march to the beat of a different drumstick.

Yankees Suck!

Just wanted to point out that the Red Sox are in first place in the AL East and 8.5 games ahead of the Yankees.

And I'm thrilled we let Roger Clemens get away. The Bronx Bombers can have him (for $28 million, no less). That guy is high maintenance and his ego is wicked lahge.

Yell Until You're Blue In The Tooth

Can I just say that people who walk around with those Bluetooth headsets wrapped around one ear look really weird. I understand that if you're going to talk on the phone and drive, it's safer if you're wearing a hands-free device. But, I'm sorry, when I see you walking around chatting on one of those things, it looks like you've got a big cockroach attached to your head.

And if I'm on the opposite side from your Bluetooth/cockroach ear, you look like you're talking, no actually yelling, to yourself.

Which brings me to my next kvetch. Why are cell phones actually yell phones? Why do people always seem to be screaming when they're talking on the phone in a public place? I thought digital technology made it easier to have a clear conversation. But it always seems that when I'm standing in line to buy a movie ticket, check out of the grocery store or mail a package at the post office (in other words, when I'm trapped), some crazy yahoo is telling his buddy fortissimo voce about how drunk he got the night before.

I wish, just once, that every Bluetooth headset would jump off the ear of its owner and morph into Gregor Samsa who would then lecture these blowhards on basic etiquette.

Pass The Maalox

I don't like the word "gastropub." It means a bar or pub that offers high-end beers, a decent wine list and a menu that most foodies would appreciate. It's not a place for the Bud and beer nuts crowd.

But if a place like that is meant to stimulate my salivary glands, why does the name sound so darned medical?

The prefix "gastro" is derived from the Greek word gastros meaning "stomach." Hence, gastroenterology is the study of the digestive system and digestive diseases. And then there's gastric bypass surgery and gastroenteritis. Funny, my tummy's not growling now.

Call me a Philistine, but I just can't get from fluorescent lights and a barrium enema to cedar plank salmon and a '97 Bordeaux.

No Left Turn

A few days ago, ScientificAmerican.com published an article stating that left-handed women have a higher risk of dying. I almost proved that to be true at age six when I tried to fly by jumping off the top of the slide in my backyard. Instead of buying the farm, however, I hit a tree and broke my left arm.

And you know what they say, "If it doesn't kill you, it'll make you stronger." Well, it didn't kill me but it did make me feel a bit off-kilter because my sinister second grade teacher decided my bandaged left arm provided her with the perfect opportunity to squelch my gauche tendencies.

She forced me to write right-handed.

So I became just like the rest of my family - ambidextrous. My father, another born lefty, was switched as a kid, too, but still threw a ball left-handed. My mother is a true lefty but plays tennis right-handed, and my brother does everything lefty except writing.

And, despite my second grade teacher's intentions, I still do a whole bunch of things left-handed. But right after the big switcheroo, I got an F in penmanship for two straight years, and even now, a hand-written letter from me closely resembles the Rosetta Stone. Go figure.

But Officer, I Swear I Was Going Only 5

I got a ticket for walking too fast on the Mission Beach boardwalk.

Okay, not really, but I could. There's a speed limit on the boardwalk - 8 miles per hour - and I'm pretty fleet-footed when I've got my game face on. With all the traffic along the beach, it makes perfect sense to make the public aware that going too fast, even on the boardwalk, can cause an accident.

But why 8 miles per hour? Why not 6 or 11?

And how do you track your speed? I've never seen a skater, jogger or walker using a speedometer. Maybe some of the more tricked out bikes have something that measures speed, but most beach cruisers are pretty scaled down.

So how the heck are you supposed to know if you're doing 9 and need to start thinking up excuses? Gee officer, I just bought these sneakers and I had no idea they could go that fast.

I can just picture it, a cop sitting in a beach chair with a burrito in one hand and a radar gun in the other. Yeah, that's where I want my tax dollars going.