Dear PR/Marketing People Sending Me Pitches for Father’s Day, Etc.

Let me help you. Please.

I had your job before, making cold calls and email pitches. It sucks. Allow me to make your life easier.

Unless you are offering to pay me a decent wage (see #SwifferDads campaign) to write about your product or brand, or you are offering to give me a pricey and/or sexy product (think Bluetooth headphones, flat-screen TVs, sports cars, lots and lots of tasty alcohol, etc.), just save yourself the time and effort.

I have no interest in running your high-res photos of celebrity dads giving their kids BPA-free high colonics.

Newcastle Brown Ale: My New Best Friend

It’s been a while since I’ve bemoaned the many lame PR pitches I receive here at Uncool Enterprises Unincorporated. Oh, I still get them by truckload; I just tend to hit ‘delete’ faster these days.

Once in a while, something catches my eye that begs me to open it. It happened twice last week.

The first email asked me to take a mouthwash “challenge” with a truly hot young actress.

Well, that’s what the subject line said, and that sounded like a good deal to me.

Upon further reading, I found that outside of mentioning said actress in an early sentence, she and her role in this promotion never appeared again. Instead, it was all “write about your experience with our product” and “get your readers to like our Facebook page” but darned if we’ll compensate you for your time and effort. We won’t even offer to send you the product, suckerrrrrrrrrrr!

OK, they also said that with each Facebook like they’d donate money to a charity. Yeah, throw some more guilt on me, why don’t you?

After I got over this and the company implying you and I have stink breath, I decided to send back a quick note:

“If (said hot young actress) 
is personally testing my mouth's progress, yes.
Otherwise, pass. Thanks.”

A flak wrote back:

“Ha. Very funny. Thanks.”

I’d say that door is still open.

Then, after nearly five years, my sponsorship prayers were finally answered. In came an email with the heading:

Throw a Winning Super Bowl Party with Newcastle Brown Ale

I’ll cut to the chase – this sentence at the end:

Would you be interested in receiving samples
of Newcastle Brown Ale or Newcastle Winter IPA
for any Super Bowl stories you may be working on?

Free beer? Who? Me?

Ha.

Ha ha.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Yesterday, came this:

HALLE-FRICKIN’-LUJAH!!!

Since I’ll be in transit during the Super Bowl, I popped open two brews immediately – you know, in the name of science and good blogging.

Newcastle Brown Ale is a great go-to session beer. Pours with a nice creamy head, warm caramel color and light nutty taste, not to heavy on the alcohol. We’ve purchased The Dog (OK, I don’t know anyone who calls it that) in the cool mini-keg for parties at Uncool Estates in the past and it’s been a big hit.

The Winter IPA is … odd. Higher in alcohol content, copperish in color but, for an IPA, quite light on the hops in terms of smell and taste. Bit malty but no winter warmer spices like nutmeg or cinnamon – just, well, beer. I wouldn’t turn it down (it’s not light beer, for goodness sake) but I wouldn’t seek it out either. OK just not special as an IPA or a winter brew.

Oh, so why will I be in transit during the Super Bowl? Tune in soon to find out …

My Back Pages

Under the "STORE CLOSING" sign rested a stack of books with hemorrhage-red covers bearing the title "Too Big to Fail."

The irony had to force a smile.

When Borders Book Shop opened in my hometown in 1992, it  ushered in an era of oxymoron retail -- the cozy superstore. It offered 100,000 titles, many at discount prices, and featured comfy earth-toned couches and chairs along with a then cutting-edge treat -- a coffee bar. They might have called their java Seattle’s Best but usually it tasted more like something that had passed through Seattle Slew.

Borders enraged area owners of small, independent bookstores. Volume dealing of volumes! How gauche! A few of these little shops closed quickly without much fanfare, including the tiny Barrett Bookstore in that same shopping plaza. I had treaded Barrett’s industrial-white tile floors many times in those previous years, searching mostly for my school-required literary classics as well as the necessary CliffsNotes that explained why, for example, Moby Dick should enrapture rather than task and heap me. (Damn you, Kirrrrrrk – I mean, MelVILLLLLE!)

Ahab may not have gotten his revenge, but surviving independents did.

Earlier this year Borders' parent filed for bankruptcy, done in by even bigger retailers like Target and Amazon.com. However, I think even those early chain-store foes would agree any bookstore going under, regardless of ownership, is not a time for gloating. Forget the intellectual aspect of it; people have special bonds with bookstores and, (uses cranky old-timer voice) back in my day, those melodious places where we bought our Victrola 78s. These were shelters where you went in your times of joy or need or loneliness to see your old friends and meet new ones who would always accept you into their magical world.

However, I had other reasons to feel wistful about this past weekend's closing. Yes, one is the fear of yet another CVS/pharmacy or -- worse -- bank moving into Borders' shell. Most have to do with my growing up, to some degree, within those brick walls.

For 25 years prior to it being Borders, for my entire lifetime at that point, this place had been a supermarket, the locally owned and operated GranCentral. Not only was it the market my mother hauled me to nearly every week for groceries as a kid, but it was also the one where I lost my innocence to the working world.

For nine months following my 16th birthday, I donned a paper-thin GranCentral green jacket and served.

I combed the parking lot in rain, cold and heat gathering wire-framed carts and cursing the lazy shoppers who abandoned them.

I sorted and stacked sticky piles of returned bottles in the basement, building a fort from the filled cartons where I would eat my lunch and read the latest copies of People or US Weekly.

One time, I spent three hours on a Sunday restocking the freezer aisles without wearing gloves. I recall that day whenever my fingertips go numb, as they sometimes do, when the mercury just barely dips below 50. Consequently, from November to April, My Love often refers to me as "Mitten Boy."

At GranCentral, I learned about unions from the cut they took from my meager check. I also learned about them from my fellow teen wage slave, Pasqual, an impossibly scrawny and heavily accented Frenchman who would skulk and complain until he got his mandated break so he could go outside for a smoke.

I discovered profit margins when I found a pricing sheet that showed how much those rolls we baked in the deli really cost.

I also figured out how to use a box cutter to make end-cap displays without slicing into the product or my fingers. Well, most of the time.

But my best memory (outside of my one date with this totally fine cashier who dumped me with barely the pleasure of gliding over her rolling hills) is of the full-time guys who worked in the deli department. They tended to mismark the prices on our sandwiches so it didn’t cut too much into our meager pockets. On some Sundays after the freshly clipped coupon crowd thinned, they’d cook an extra rotisserie chicken or errantly make an extra cheese steak for whoever had the shift.

For years afterward, I’d run into some of the deli guys around town or while they were working at their second jobs. There was Red, who was also a typewriter repairman; Mark, an organist at a local church; and Mike the Greek who, well, was Greek. They always remembered who I was just like they always remembered their regular customers' orders.

After waiting in line for several minutes to make my final purchases from the local Borders, I helped the cashier peel off the dozen or so price stickers from my new books and then pack them into plastic bags. I asked about her plans.

"This is it for me," she said. "And I'm doing my book shopping online from now on."

On my way out, I took solace in the fact I didn't need a shopping cart to get all these tomes back to the minivan. The thought of some poor kid slogging through the parking lot because of my laziness, to this day, still gives me pause.

* * *

THING 1 UPDATE: Rash improvement

The first IV infusions of steroids went well over the weekend. Her rash is already looking less angry, as My Love says. This weekend will be two more doses of IV steroids plus a 6-hour-long infusion of IVIG. Oy.

Thoughts and prayers welcome as are your donations to Cure JM to help all kids with juvenile myositis diseases.

Cheers … U

I’ll Give You a Free Press

Want revenge on the local Chinese restaurant that’s always stuffing menus under your windshield wiper?

Then you need some flyers to plaster on its storefront window that say “Dim Sum Of This, Bozo!”

Tired of all those negative ads politicians have been mailing you every day this election season?

Well, you should send them back some tactfully designed postcards featuring mooning garden gnomes.

These and many more practical and less sophomoric things can be accomplished with the help of one of my generous advertisers, NextDayFlyers.com. They also do cool business cards and charming greeting cards but that doesn’t make for entertaining reading for you, now does it?

IT’S A GIVEAWAY, CONTEST, A FREEBIE!

As proof of their blind faith in me as a means to their ends, they are letting me give one of you fair Uncoolniks a $25 printing credit good for anything they sell online. Here’s the rules, you need to:

• Be at least 18 years of age.
• Leave a comment, any comment, on this post.
• Be hungry like the wolf. Or at least a bit peckish.

That’s it. Winner will be announced in one week’s time.

Disclosure: Duh, these folks bought ad space on my blog. This giveaway was part of our agreement. They offered me a printing credit, too, but I’m passing solely because they were nice enough to buy ad space. Makes me feel like less of a status symbol and more of a man.

* * *

Please don’t forget to vote today and every day through the end of the month to help Cure JM win a $250,000 Pepsi Refresh grant. We need to hold on to the  No. 2 until Sept. 1 to win the money. If you can, also vote for these other great kids’ causes we are supporting.

Back to my self-imposed Blogger Rehab. Watch for more special guests Friday and Monday.

Wax On, Wax Off Wednesday

If the object of a Brazilian is hair-free hair down there, I would hope frizz-free is a minimal requirement.

But just to hedge its bets, the salon advertised this waxing special for May this past Thursday … June 17.

Best Father’s Day Gifts Ever (if you really hate a dad)

The Always Home and Uncool inbox has been overflowing of late with marketing and PR e-mails purporting to contain great gift ideas for dads this upcoming Father’s Day. However, these products are not so great as to cause the manufacturer’s advertising department to wire even the tiniest amount of money into my PayPal account in exchange for the publicity. Hence, they will now get what they pay for:

Male performance ‘shapewear’

Nothing says, “Dad, I love you,” like the gift of Spanx for men. Now, I know what the undershirt and underwear are trying to lift and separate, but what’s with the $45 socks? Are they bionic? Do they take out the recycling or walk the dog?

Lounge chairs for your bed

Though this looks far more useful than the 83 throw pillows we currently have on our bed, a few points need to be raised:

1. If you are trying to sell this as a gift for dads (at just $220!), what’s with the photo of the woman using it? Is she included or just an optional feature?

2. And why the hell is she wearing my $45 performance socks?

A ‘Mommy Makeover’

OK, this PR pitch I received about pimping a South Carolina plastic surgeon who wants to help moms get back their pre-baby bodies via boob jobs, tummy tucks and general Heidi Montag-ization wasn’t explicitly labeled as a Father’s Day gift idea. But how else can you explain it being sent to me – a dad blogger with one perfect honey of a wife – during early June? Oh, right – stupidity.

‘Intelligent’ toothbrushes

What message does this send a guy? You embarrass me with your unsightly plaque? You’re too dumb to master up and down, not side to side?

And now a gift that a dad might really like – no kidding:

If you have a dad in your life who likes a good book, let me recommend one to you: Sugar Milk: What One Dad Drinks When He Can’t Afford Vodka by Ron Mattocks, who some of you may know in the blogosphere as the guy with a Coldplay fixation who also writes Clark Kent’s Lunchbox.

Even though I have met Ron and his vastly superior wife, Ashley, and he has vaguely helped raise some cash for and awareness of Cure JM for me, the man has never asked me to plug his book. The bastard wouldn’t even send me a freebie copy to review. If I sent him the copy I bought -- at full retail price, mind you -- I’m sure he’d expect me to cover the return postage.

With that disclosure out of the way, let me say Ron wrote a very amusing book about his struggles with unemployment, divorce, computer dating and being a stepdad to two clever little girls who need to be properly compensated with heaps of homemade pancakes (made with fresh milk, you cheap so-and-so) for providing him with so much funny material. I laughed, I giggled, I shot good beer out of my nose.

Ron – you make us dad bloggers proud.

Tune in Friday to learn what I’m giving My Love and The Things for Father’s Day.

Technorati Tags: Father's Day,fathers,dads,gifts,books

My Meaty Weiners ... I Mean -- Winners

Sure, you love me, your humble scribe and beleaguered at-home dad, but I know where your true affections lie.

They lie on the grill.

And in the oven.

Maybe even in a crusty cast-iron frying pan, smothered in sauteed onions, peppers and artery-clogging yumminess.

Yes, my friends, you love your Hillshire Farm meat.

And you love it free.

For one whole year.

In all, you submitted more than 240 entries into my "Win the Sausage!" giveaway, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity (assuming you didn't enter a similar once-in-a-lifetime affair elsewhere in the blogosphere) sponsored by the generous, intelligent and totally smoking hot folks at Hillshire Farm.

And I have sorted through them all and come up with this ...

First, some surprise "bonus" prizes so I can:

• better comply with FCC regulations,
• avoid problems with the IRS, and
• hide the evidence of any possible sausage abuse from my doctor.

Runner-up prize No. 1: A copy of The Hillshire Farm Cookbook
This 64-page, full-color paperback includes a whopping 42 meaty recipes featuring Hillshire Farm products as well as tips on cooking, grilling and entertaining. And, it goes to an entrant -- chosen at random -- who happens to be named ...

James (aka Seattle Dad), author of the "Luke, I am Your Father" blog

Runner-up prize No. 2: An official "Go Meat!" white apron

This must-have article of cooking attire is being awarded to the person I believed submitted the most logical, literate and honest rationale (in the form of a naughty limerick to boot!) for her winning the grand prize. Here's her entry:

There once was a woman from Weaselville

She had very sore knees due to ... (cleaning well)

A year's worth of meat

Would keep her off of her feet

And focus her efforts in pleasureville.

The apron and congratulations go to WeaselMomma!

GRAND PRIZE: A year's supply of Hillshire Farm Product(s)

The winner, chosen at random, is a Midwestern man with

• a heart of gold (soon to be replaced with saturated fats) ...
• a unibrow of steel wool, and ..
• The Cheek of God on WordPress. 

It's ...

 Brian (aka TysDaddy)

Congratulations to all my winners and thanks to all of you for entering, commenting, tweeting and making not-so-thinly-veiled penis jokes. I hope the many of you who entered but are not regular readers at Always Home and Uncool will come back even when I'm not offering free animal products. Special thanks to the folks at Hillshire Farms for providing the goods.

Mocking The Lame (PR Pitches I Receive)

Since a woman first declared 2010 "The Year of the Daddy Blogger" (she might also be a mom, maybe even a mommy blogger, but the use of a woman's ovaries are best left up to her own devices -- or, more precisely, the lack thereof -- so I shan't speculate further), my inbox has literally gone from zero to half a dozen PR pitches a day.

Unfortunately, most of these pitches are lame and the products and services lamer. For example:

They are about mom/woman things. I'm not talking cleaning, ironing and cooking supplies, you presumptive reverse sexists. Those are my areas in the household and there is nothing wrong about that no matter what says the Mother of All Uncoolness (hi, Mom!). I'm talking expensive jewelry for babies, confession Web sites for moms who don't have their own blogs to confess on, and items that provide, um, uh, girly freshness. Is my content that feminine? Where are the microbrewers? The makers of Blu-Ray DVD players with built-in WiFi (like the Panasonic DMP-BD85K or maybe the LG BD570 -- do you need a mailing address)? Damn it, where's my XBox360!

They are addressed to "Mr. ____." A half-point for getting my gender right. However, if you don't know my last name then don't leave it blank, you unpaid PR intern monkey. What's that? You're a VP at the company? Then hire a PR intern monkey, idiot! Geez, at least address me by my first name (hint: it's in my FAQs and my URL.) If nothing else, be a creative suck up. Starting with "Dear Mr. Well-Endowed Blogger" is not going hurt your chances around here.

They hype products tied to idiotic, overexposed "celebrities." I have written about my waistline issues but why would I give a slutty Kardashian about what type of girdle one of those reality show harlots wears to squeeze in her post-baby belly? Especially without sending me an actual slutty Kardashian to model it for me. (Note to that marketing agency: I'm partial to this one, especially in this saucy pirate outfit:

And, yes, I'll pay for the postage. Delivery only, though.)

They are about inappropriate products. I'm not talking sex toys. Those are perfectly fine between consenting adults, assuming your household contains adults (mine -- yes) who consent (meh). I'm talking items that run quite counter to my core beliefs. My favorite to date? Right after I ranted about overpriced high chairs, a company sends me an e-mail pimping not only a $600 baby stroller but some bizarro artwork some "well-known artist" did of said stroller. First, people who are well known don't need to be introduced as such. Second, what the fluck, flunky flak?

That's why I'm happy to announce an actual PR pitch worthy of this little blog that benefits me and YOU, my dear loyal readers and irregular commenters. (No, it's not a deal with Fiber One, but that also would be appropriate for our collective colons.)

Details will appear here Thursday. Tune back in then.

Meanwhile, fill me in on the most inane PR pitch you have every received. Or your favorite Kardashian. Sex toys, optional.

Doin’ It Doggy Style

Our final guest in this week’s series, “When ‘Always Home’ Leaves His Home,” is the dynamic darling of the Great Plains, the acronymish FADKOG of For a Different Kind of Girl.

FADKOG and I share many things that even the best antibiotics won’t cure. A love of ‘80s music. A lust for Dairy Queen sundaes. Past lives as small-town journalists. And part-time jobs in the book-selling industry, though my sentence was commuted many, many years ago.

I paid her a surprise visit at her workplace just the other week …

+ + +

Being a bookseller is as glamorous as you imagine it to be. The constant stream of party invitations, photo shoots, and charity events on the calendar? Exhausting!

Then there's all the club openings and dodging the paparazzi as they jump out from between the shelves. It's a wonder I get anything done.

Oh sure, it sounds like fun, but it's also a lot of hard work. You don't just wake up one day and become someone like me. Oh no. You have to log a lot of hours behind a cash register before graduating to the sales floor and shifts filled with bright smiles plastered on your face even though every conversation you have in a six to eight-hour shift begins with the phrase, "I'm looking for a book."

However, you don't officially make it to celebrity bookseller status until you can cast aside your humility and don a giant animal costume for story time like I got to do last week when I was made to wear a Clifford the Big Red Dog costume. Only then will it feel like you've reached the summit and gotten that belly scratch from management that will make your back paws whip like a propeller, and all for less than $10 an hour!

And even though you're a glamorous bookseller, you won't pitch a diva fit when you pull that giant red fur rag out of its travel casket and suddenly imagine the many times it's been worn by other people. Other people who have christened it with their sweat and added to the fur-trapped funk cocktail so heady it can't even be described despite the fact I've been told many times I should write books rather than sell them, so I should have the proper adjectives, but no, I don't, because I still have a headache from the weight of Clifford's giant head pressing on my cranium. Thank heaven for that, really, because it forces me not to dwell on the idea that, while I hope it's not true, you know you'd fart in one of these big furry costumes, so I have to assume someone at some time has tested the acoustics by beeping their ass horn while in it. Sadly, I'm going on the assumption it's been everyone up to, but excluding, me.

Of course, you'll also have to endure the snickering of your fellow booksellers (who actually are laughing with you because you're such a hilarious star) and compel toddlers and preschoolers to pee their pants in either fear or mad lust as you lumber toward them with your giant red paw stretched out as though you wish to crush their tiny toddler heads. Better yet if you can get them to soil themselves in some combination of the two emotions. While crying. Or screaming. Or humping your fake fur covered leg, because I promise you, that's going to end up happening.

After wooing the young crowd with my animal magnetism, my team of assistants (remember ... we're glamorous!) packed the costume back up. Inside the shipping container, we found a little photo album in which previous Cliffords had documented their visits to other bookstores in the chain via Polaroid photos and notes. Many included lovely photos of them hugging young fans. Yawn. I suggested we include a vicious homage depicting Clifford, paws up, with a fake tire mark across his gut. Or a hand holding up Clifford's head only, two black X's over the dog's eyes. Or perhaps Clifford lounging in one of the comfy chairs set up around the store, one paw holding a tattered copy of Dog Fancy, the other holding...well, yeah. Where my dogs at, y'all! You can clearly see why management doesn't want to lose an employee like me!

Luckily for my booming career, someone special happened to walk into my store at just the right moment:

So yes, being a bookseller can be rough, but it does have its perks. If you keep your snout clean and have an overwhelming desire to help people who are looking for a book, you, too, could be one of the lucky ones, like me. A celebrity bookseller. Steeped in couture Clifford costumes. Rollin' in the slightly higher than minimum wage kibble. After hours howlin' with the Duke and Snoop (that's Marmaduke and Snoopy to those non-celebs). Yep. Good times.

Woof!

robot chicken - clifford the big red dog - Watch more Funny Videos

+ + +

My greatest thanks to my great guests and digital friends FADKOG, Homemaker Man and Anna Lefler for filling in for me this week, and thanks to all of you for not mooning them.

I’ll be back next week. Cheers!

My Blogiversary -- Exposed!

Good day, blogosphere, I'm Reggie Hartner -- you may remember me from last year's report on BlogHer 'o8 -- and this is a special edition of IWitless News.

Today is March 11. A day that will live in infamy not only because it marks the death of the original meat packer, Oskar Mayer, but also -- to a much lesser extent -- because it marks the birth of a far inferior maker of bologna -- the "Always Home and Uncool" blog.

Here's IWitless News correspondent Todd Zalinsky with our story. Todd:

(Cut to REPORTER sitting in front of computer.)

REPORTER: Thanks, Reg. It all began with a sacrilegious rewrite of the opening chorus of the beloved 'Brady Bunch' theme. Later that same day -- good gravy -- he spewed out something about his days as a Dungeons & Dragons geek. Why, dear Lord, why?!

(Cut to man with three-days of growth on face, wearing eight-year-old faded Brew-Thru beer shop T-shirt with black paint stains on it.)

UNCOOL: I needed to do something to prove to My Love that I didn't spend all day surfing adult Web sites in search of free 20-second previews.

REPORTER (off camera): Did you have a longer-term goal?

UNCOOL: Well, yeah. Like most people, I hoped a well-connected wealthy patron of the arts or talent agent would recognize my genius and lead me down the path of not-so-well-deserved-but-not-worth-losing-sleep-over riches and fame.

REPORTER (off camera): And then?

UNCOOL: And then, I could finally afford full-access membership to those adult Web sites.

(Cut to UNCOOL rummaging through refrigerator. He starts to shovel cold, leftover pizza in his mouth. The toppings drip onto his droopy, tube-socked feet.)

REPORTER (voice over): But the primrose path to blogging fame is littered with people far more sexually and scatological explicit, trippingly more drug-induced and -- yet -- generally just as marginal as he …

(Cut to UNCOOL, padding around with a half-filled beer, scratching his sweatpantsed ass.)

What could make this former reporter, laid-off corporate cubicle dweller and father of two stand apart ? …

(MURPHY THE YELLOW LAB enters frame from left, sticks nose into UNCOOL's sweatpantsed ass.)

We went to the REAL source.

(Cut to MY LOVE in corporate professional pantsuit, looking very serious. Superimpose title: "Blogger's Sugar Mama.")

MY LOVE: He tries really hard. I think that's his problem. Hard isn't his strength.

REPORTER (off-camera): That's what she said!

MY LOVE: Huh? I don't get it.

REPORTER (off-camera): Apparently not. (Snickers.)

(Cut to UNCOOL, now in "Joe Sucks, Bring Back Steve" Blue's Clues sweatshirt, four-days growth on face, wearing glasses with visible fingerprints on lenses, typing at computer.)

REPORTER (voice over): Trying hard but typing poorly about his issues with perfectly legal drugs, teaching his kids how to fracture bones while having fun and his putting a dead dog in his luggage -- it's a part of his grand strategy … for Internet obscurity.

(Cut to REPORTER interviewing UNCOOL.)

REPORTER: You don't take advertising.

UNCOOL: It's not that I don't take advertising. I don't seek it. If anyone wants to spend money advertising on my site they're welcome to fork it over. I mean, can the world have enough animated GIFs of women shaking their booties to promote mortgage scams or blooming flowers to illustrate that great fresh smell from your pantie liners?

REPORTER: Definitely not. And payment from that stuff is -- like, lucrative -- I hear. Sometimes four digits. If you count the places to the right of the decimal point.

UNCOOL: Beside, as a minority blogger. I'm neither a propeller-head, a politico nor of a gender loaded with an ovary full of potential TLC reality shows. I'm not exactly a marketer's wet dream. I'm, well, me.

REPORTER: Just a man?

UNCOOL: Mmm, no. Just a guy.

(Cut to REPORTER walking though cluttered garage.)

REPORTER: So, after a year, what keeps this 'guy' of 40 plugging away? (Accidentally kicks over pile of empty bottles and cans.)

(Cut to UNCOOL -- now with five days growth, wearing a black T-shirts reading "The Figgs" bearing an illustration of Phil Spector sporting a honking white man Afro -- being interviewed by REPORTER.)

UNCOOL: Not a clue. (Hiccups.)

REPORTER: Has this past year changed you in any way?

UNCOOL: My wife says when I vent my sarcasm on my blog, I'm nicer to her. Leaves me kind of strapped for dinner conversation, though.

REPORTER: Have you ever meet any of your readers?

UNCOOL: A few -- locally and elsewhere. They all seem, believe it or not, disarmingly normal in real life. Therefore, one is definitely a serial killer. I'm thinking it's probably the guy in Chicago. I'm hoping it's not the woman who gets me naked twice a month.

REPORTER: Now we're talking!

UNCOOL: Pfft! She's my massage therapist. I write for her spa's newsletter in exchange for free rubdowns.

REPORTER: Really …

UNCOOL: Considering the only writing most people want me to do them is for free, it's actually …

REPORTER: You get fully naked for her? I mean: You. In. The. Buff.

UNCOOL: Yep.

REPORTER: Excuse me. (Ducks off camera. Unintelligible sound in background. Comes back, wiping mouth.) Any other great lessons learned from the blog-o-sphere?

UNCOOL: Nope.

REPORTER: That's it? No grand pronouncements on building virtual community and finding your inner child online. Oooo oooo -- life is grand! This has been great therapy. Now it's all Cheese Nips and sunshine. La la la la!

UNCOOL: Nope. I'm pretty certain I'm as screwed up as ever. Just more people know it.

REPORTER: Yeah, you're going places, Mary Ann.

UNCOOL: Actually, that reminds me. I've got a biweekly column starting in my local newspaper starting on Friday.

REPORTER: What?

UNCOOL: Yep. One Friday it's my local buddy, the multi-talented Sarah Darer Littman writing liberally about politics; the next, it's me writing about, pfft, probably about the same (bleep) I write about here. Except I'll get paid for it. Starts Friday in The Advocate.

REPORTER: The magazine for, uh, Clay Aiken types?

UNCOOL: No, but that is a common point of confusion. It's a daily newspaper in Connecticut. (Sighs.) Lifelong dream come true, sort of. That is if you exclude all those ones about trading vocals with Roger Daltry on "Dreaming From the Waist" followed by an after-party involving lingerie-clad supermodels and butterscotch Magic Shell. (Tongue hangs out.) Uuuuuuh, butterscotch.

REPORTER: (Bleep)! Why didn't you tell us before we started this (bleep)ing interview?

UNCOOL: Well, I have learned one thing in the past year. I'm extremely terrible at self-promotion.

(Screen goes black. REGGIE HARTNER back on camera.)

That was Todd Zalinsky reporting.

For all of us here at IWitless News, I'm Reggie Hartner and this has been a special report.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming of women in bikinis dancing with people in gorilla suits.


Video: "Monkey to Man," Elvis Costello & The Imposters

My Year of At-Home Dadness

A former colleague dropped me a line to say she had a change in daytime contact information. Since we both worked in corporate communications (motto: "Using words, charts and video to tell you nothing!"), I knew this was code.

She'd been downsized, right-sized, RIF-ed, sacked, separated and sent packing.

She was one of many friends, neighbors, former co-workers and random strangers I've meet in the past few months who had also been shown the door at their places of work. Every time I hear of this, I have one and one thought only:

"You slackers! I got the heave-ho in October. Of 2007!"

Me -- a trendsetter, a pioneer. This must be how James T. Kirk felt every day at the helm of his star ship, but without the velour pants and vinyl captain's chair causing stickiness in the nether regions.

With this reminder of the recent passing of my first can-iversary (pink paper, naturally), I realized I was due for a performance review. Twelve months of emancipation from corporate dronery and, subsequently, as head of Uncool Enterprises Unincorporated deserved some serious evaluation. I sought guidance from our in-house executive HR goddess -- My Love.

"Sorry, I'm slammed," she said. "I've got 16 deadlines and three bosses breathing down my neck. Meanwhile, I've got to make PowerPoint deck salad for the Region Seven Niblick Overlay assembly and dial in to a conference call with Burpakistanbul in five minutes."

Still, it was one of the best meetings I've ever had with HR.

When I was told to meet with the HR rep at my last company for details on my separation package, she offered such insights as "I don't have any of your papers in front of me," "I'm not sure" and "I don't know how we handle that."

She ended up quitting a week before my effective termination date. I swear, I am innocent.

With no assistance from My Love, I went looking for some bottom-up feedback from the Things.

"Children, how's Daddy doing? Am I exceeding the expectations I've set for you as main proprietor of all-things parenting?"

"You're still a dork," Thing 1 said.

"I'll look into that. Thing 2, do you concur with your sister's evaluation of my performance as Dad-in-chief?"

"Can you buy me some more Pokémon cards?" he said.

"I'll have to see if you are within your budgetary allowances for this quarter. Do have the proper paperwork in triplicate with the pre-approval stamp and signature of the chief financial officer?"

"I have black stuff in my bellybutton."

Next, I tried my closest work associate, Murphy the Rabbit Killer. Unfortunately, he couldn't offer an opinion. He was in a meeting of the nasty bits with the fetid-smelling golden retriever next door.

Looks like, as usual, I'll have to fend for myself. Rather than dwell on the past, I'll move right into the goal-setting portion of my review:

Take more naps. I'm not much for siestas, but medical evidence of their benefits continues to grow. Who am I to argue with science?

Wear pajamas all day. If I'm going to be stereotyped as a work-at-home parent, why not go full throttle? This, of course, will require me to buy some pajamas. Bright side, walking the kids to school will be less breezy.

Play more golf. I remember one division president at my last company telling an audience of employees about his meeting with the executive management consultant the CEO hired to evaluate his top people. The consultant told the DP he spent too much time in the office and on job sites. Instead, he recommended the DP get out and play more golf during business hours. Which reminds me …

Expand consulting services. Time management skills, perhaps?

Practice my bass. It looks really cool on the stand in my office, but what if I finally have a potential business client over and he demands I nail The Who's "The Real Me" or else the deal is off? I heard that's how the Microsoft-Yahoo deal collapsed. Frickin' Bill fumble-fingers Gates.

Get blog readers to vote for me at Humor-Blogs.com. Why? Because I expose you to rockin' song parodies like this one:


Video: "Stay-at-Home Dad," Jon Lajoie

Greenbacks

Everyone in my immediate family is or works for an accountant. I -- not once, but twice -- scored at least 130 points higher in math than verbal on my SATs.

Naturally, I became a writer. I blame a middle-school classmate who convinced me that, just prior to our taking a career-aptitude test, no job could be better than one in which you get paid to sit around and tell stories.

(Said classmate, the son of a minister, also had a premature taste for hard-core porn magazines. He kept out them out back, right across from the church.)

Still, from time to time, My Love asks me to handle simple financial matters. Why? Beats me. She has an MBA and spends most of her day converting world currencies and dissecting international monetary bylaws so someone who lives in Cheboygan, Mich., can be paid in British sterling via Turkish lira that has be filtered through Mexican counting houses because the person once saw a Taco Bell ad in magazine while flying over the Samsun province.

(Scene: My Love, lost in the thought at the kitchen table.

ME: "Honey, wha'cha thinkin' 'bout?"

HER: "Oh, you know. Sometimes I just like to compound interest in my head.")

Last week, My Love phoned home with a mission: Go to our local Wank of America branch and have them make out a bank check to a car dealer. The check was for a tidy sum that made me gag on the store-brand peanut butter I was having for lunch.

"If we have that much in the bank, why don't I just hit the ATM?" I asked, mentally picturing such a thick stack of Jacksons. "I'll go change into some cargo shorts."

"No. I need a check made out by the bank because … (I zoned out during this part, probably as I was focusing on removing the generic Jif from my wisdom tooth) …, OK?"

"Yes, My Love."

I grabbed the checkbook she left for me on the countertop and headed out.

Hmm, if I have a checkbook why do I need a bank check?

God, this peanut butter is being feisty!

I arrived at the bank and informed the teller of my need.

"There's a $7 charge for that," she said.

Then she looked at my checkbook. The account I wanted to use was actually with another bank down the street.

Quarts of flop sweat later, my minivan pulled up to the nearby PityWank branch. As I do, it dawns on me: I was in this building many years ago … when it was an S&H Green Stamps redemption center. What did we trade our stamps in for? Blender? Mixer?

So, into the bank and another line. The teller asks for my bank card.

"Uh, I don't have one."

"You don't have a card for your account?"

"No. But I have this checkbook."

She looks exasperated. Then she asks for my Social Security number.

"It's not in the system. Do you know your wife's Social?"

"I don't know my wife's phone number at work. … But I have this checkbook. My name is printed on the checks. See. Do these checks serve any purpose at all?"

She commences banging away furiously on her keyboard. I feel like I just asked to upgrade my seat on the last chopper out of 'Nam.

Triggered by waiting impatiently and impotently at the counter, just as I did with my mom 35 years ago, The Green Stamp store flashbacks begin. Yellow linoleum floors crammed with vacuums standing under soiled throw rugs. Peeling wallpaper with crooked posters of smiling housewives in checkered aprons. Jesus, what did we get here?

Sewing machine?

Rowboat?

Dang it, that's an old episode of the Brady Bunch.

"You know," the teller interrupted, "there will be a $10 service charge for issuing this check?"

"You know," I countered, "it's only $7 up the street."

"Pardon me, sir?"

"Hey! Do you know what?" I said in mid-epiphany. "My mom and I got a toaster over in this building once and all it cost us was a few books of sticky green paper."



Video: "It's Money that Matters," Randy Newman

Lessons for my son, age 6

The middle male of the Uncool household, a.k.a. Thing 2, turned 6 over the weekend. This is a pretty amazing feat for you, little dude, because, in all seriousness, Mom and I gave much thought on Day 4 of your existence to trading you in for a quieter model.

I walked three miles around the creaky second floor of our old house that first-night-into-morning you were home, son, bouncing you in my arms, swaying you back and forth, swaddling and re-swaddling, singing you my up-to-that-time-never-miss (at least for your big sister) bedtime medley of "Sunny Afternoon" and "(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay." All for naught, boy, all for naught.

Thanks goodness for Tanqueray. I mean, for me. Over the next three weeks, it eased the soreness you caused in my right knee that night.

As for your problem, well, seems Mom wasn't putting out enough and you just needed a big ol' helping of artificial help. Consider that your first life lesson.

On this most important occasion, son, let me say that I see a lot of me in you. And I am so, so very sorry for that.
The least I can do is try to tell you about some of the many left turns I made when I should have gone right in life. So, sit down, let me put on my cardigan and fill up my pipe … there, that's enough bubble solution … and here we go:

Southern Comfort and instant iced tea … not a good drinking experience from start to the inevitable finish.

Don't do illegal drugs.

If you are in Amsterdam, however, where certain pharmaceuticals are legal, find someone who actually knows how to roll that thing up for you. Nothing says "ugly American tourist" quite like walking the canals while shy an eyebrow.

Righty, tighty; lefty, loosey.

When the boss tells you NOT do something -- like, say, file a claim for full-time status and benefits since you have been working 40 hours a week as a freelancer for the past two years -- because doing so might "jeopardize you ever having any kind of career in this organization," find a new organization. Then, give the old one the finger as politely as possible on the way out the door.

Learn to tell people "no" and not feel guilty about it. Your mom is a master at this.

Sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen. Especially when you sneak a flight to Miami over spring break to hook up with your girlfriend.

Which reminds me. In picking a girlfriend, "family history of mental stability" almost always beats "looks hot in those jeans."

Don't fall for that "you need to match my dress" line. You will never look at old photos of yourself in the basic black tux and cummerbund, shake your head, and wonder what you were sniffing prior to rental.

Like me as a child, you love playing with Hot Wheels cars. Note that this does not translate into a working knowledge of real automobiles when you are older.

Avoid paying for "light" beer. Drinking it is acceptable as long as that's all that's still available from the concession stand or you need to clean out the refrigerator after a party to made room for better things.

Take a job for fun, not profit, at least once in your life.

In my day, it was funny to put dishwashing liquid in a cupcake and give it to that mean 8th grade reading teacher. It was funnier when she was out sick the next day. Today, that will just get you arrested.

You may like dinosaurs now, son, but you won't like working for one when you grow up.

You're going to lose more often than you win at most things. The faster you learn to accept that, the sooner you'll start enjoying the experience as well as the glory.

Forget the GPA, suck it up and take an actual typing class.

There will be times you will need to tell your significant other that she (or he, if need be, I can handle that, too) is right even though you have irrefutable, concrete evidence to the contrary. Trust me on this.

Always question authority, except mine. I may steer you wrong from time to time, but it won't ever be because I am deliberating trying to screw you over.

UPDATE: Save the Eagle

One "Uncool" reader, who I understand is quite popular in the United Arab Emirates, says he has made contact with our target, George Irish, president of Hearst Newspapers.

He said Irish sounded at least somewhat interested in our concern, but that the unusual management arrangement between Hearst and MediaNews made it difficult for him to intervene. No surprise there.

But, Irish did say he was considering having someone look into this situation as he had heard other concerns about NewsMedia being more concerned with gutting for gutting's sake than producing quality product. Hmmm ...

Let's keep it up.

Mail your bow ties and a copy of Joe Pisani's May 3 column to George Irish, president of Hearst Newspapers, 959 8th Ave., New York, NY, 10019-3737.

Or, e-mail him copy of the column at girish@hearst.com. In the subject line, write: "FIRE NEWSMEDIA: Save The Advocate/Greenwich Time." If you can, as include any NewsMedia gripes, quality of local journalism concerns you have.

Or just call him at 212-649-2000.

You go, American Girl. Go, now.

Nothing says "female empowerment" quite like women using capitalism to cash in on female empowerment.

I have seen it up close, dear friend. It is called the American Girl doll/book/movie phenomenon.

For those without little girls or good credit lines, American Girl dolls were created by a mid-Western woman who wanted a better line of role models for girls than the bodacious airline hostess Barbie dolls of her day.

She succeeded. She succeeded so well, she sold the company in 1998 for $700 million … to Barbie's maker, Mattel. Now, the woman, Pleasant Rowland, is taking her money and essentially remaking Aurora, N.Y., in her own American Girl image, much to the displeasure of some of the natives.

Conceptually, I have no problem with AG. The dolls all have historical, fill-the-world-with-love-and-goodness backstories (Slave girl helps with the Underground Railroad! Hippie chick saves bald eagles!) supported through books, videos and a soon-to-be-released Major Motion Picture.

Values, character, etc. - I'm down with that. Beats Bratz and their "passion for fashion."

But, being in the Land of the Free Enterprise System, they tie all that wholesomeness into selling you not just the dolls at 90 bucks a pop but also the doll's accessories (Own the slave girl doll's bird in a cage for $18! Buy the hippie chick doll's picnic gear for camping out to watch bald eagles for $48!), life-size clothes for your girls that look like the dolls' clothes, and more.

And, your precious girl needs them ALL!

I'll give AG props for chutzpah and quality. The stuff they shill is definitely more substantial in terms of size and material than say those flimsy, teeny Polly Pocket toys Thing 1 was into for a while. I still occasionally find them under furniture or in the dog's digestive remains.

Well, yesterday, Thing 1 and took a day trip to Chicago for her quarterly appointment with the juvenile dermatomyositis specialist (she's doing very well, thanks for asking). As part of our appointments, we always visit the American Girl Place store there. It's her reward for enduring all the blood draws, daily doses of pills, weekly injections of medicines, nights in traction boots to stretch her ankle muscles, methods of avoiding too much sun exposure and periodic medical procedures over the past six years. They should make an American Girl doll out of her.

So, there she is, skipping up the "Magnificent Mile" of Chicago's glitzy Michigan Avenue shopping district. Arms swaying, safari hat perched on her head, a blissful blur in pink and white stripes only stopping to ask how many more blocks 'til we get there.

We arrive five minutes before the store opens. She's looking at the window displays, telling me what she likes and doesn't like.

Now, she's detailing exactly what three things she wants. She knows because she has pored through the AG catalog (which seem to arrive weekly in the mailbox), made thick colored marker circles around 85 percent of the items, and then narrowed it down to a Holy Trinity of American Girlness. This is because she knows that while I am a sucker, I am a sucker with financial limitations.

"I added it up with the calculator," she exclaims, "and they only cost $126!"

Hey, math skills being learned here. American Girl is THAT good!

It's now 10 a.m. on the dot. A man in a navy blue custodial uniform unlocks the door. "Come on in," he says.

Thing 1 is today's Customer No. 1. Some day, I'll remember to bring a camera for proud moments like this.

The AG store in Chicago is three floors of red, pink and purple pre-teen paradise (add green if you own stock in Mattel, of course). Being a Wednesday morning, this is the first time I've been in the place without it being wall-to-wall girls dressed just like their favorite AG dolls they cradled in their arms.

There was also no snaking queue of moms waiting to pay an AG stylist $20 to give a ponytail-flip-with-braid 'do to their princesses' "Just Like You" doll. The café was silent, waiting for parent-child bonding over afternoon tea at $17 a head.

It gave me the same feeling of time-slowing, stomach-sinking regret you might experience between the moment the 46-inch LCD flatscreen slips from your fingers and the millisecond it smashes onto your tile floor.

As we wandered through the stacks of boxes filled with can't-live-without-accessories (plastic cast and crutches for playing 'my doll had an accident' was a vital item Thing 1 sought for a while), I saw a fellow Dad. He asked a saleswoman if they sold Girl Scout uniforms for the dolls.

No, she said, but the closest thing would be this doll's summer camp outfit. Then you could get the camp tent and backpack and camping accessories …

I now know exactly what that vacant, dead man's stare of helplessness looks like that I give my wife every time she tells me about the latest home improvement idea she got from watching HGTV.

So, $137.66 later (note: must teach girl about sales tax), we were on our way. But first, I needed to make a pit stop.

I stopped a male security guard walking past me on the basement level. "I see the big 'Women's Restroom' sign," I said, pointing out the obvious in front of us, "but where is the men's room?"

His eyes rolled.

"You're not going to like this," he sighed. "Two floors up, in the back, tucked around a corner from the customer service desk."

"We all complain about it," he then added. By "we," he was obviously referring to only the other male members of the store staff. You could tell.

"Well, I'm sure they are fixing that when you move to the new, bigger store across the street this fall," I said.

"Oh, no," he said. "Same location in the store. But it's a bigger store and a longer walk. We all fought for that one, but it's not happening."

I guess it's true. Payback is a bitch.
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Work-at-home tip, No. 2

Never answer your home phone. Nothing good ever comes of it.

Most times, it is either telemarketers who don't abide by the national Do-Not-Call list, your college soliciting yet another donation or a robo-call asking you to vote for someone in the next election. These are not your businesses' stakeholders, as we used to say in the world of corporate communications.

You may have your answering machine screen calls or look at the Caller ID if you are curious, but resist picking up the phone in mid-message. Reeeeee-sist!

Exception to last rule: Always pick it up if it is your child's school calling you about bomb threats canceling all afterschool activities. Otherwise, they call whoever is next on the "emergency contact" pecking order, and you really don't want to freak out your Mom any more at this stage in her life.

Get a dedicated business line or, if you only telecommute on occasion, have your business calls routed to your cell phone. Just make sure you change your cell phone voice mail message to something that makes it sound like you are still in your office at work.

That means making sure the sound of the 5-CD/iPod/satellite radio music system, dog, newly installed water feature, and/or ice clincking in your glass can't be heard in the background. Those sounds would be honest, but not very professional. So I'm told.

Work-at-home tip, No. 1

Inevitably, you will be on a conference call and someone will make a crack about you working in your pajamas. This "original" witticism gets old fast.

Solution: After they make their sniggering PJ remark, respond with: "Actually, I sleep in the nude."

Deal or no deal

This entry later ran as an Op-Ed piece in The Advocate (Stamford, Conn.) newspaper on March 27, 2008, under the headline "City budgeting not a game ... or is it?"

* * * * *

Gooooood day! And, welcome to this year's edition of "Stamford Budget Crisis"!

We have an exciting show for you today as we try to find ways to pay for all the things you – that's right, you! – need, want or couldn't-care-less-about-but-are-dear-to-certain-political-interests!

So, let's give the Wheel O' Gristle a spin to see what we will be trimming today to fund the "essentials" of tomorrow …

Oh, oh, oh … it lands on slashing public library funding for $750,000! Excellent! You get to shorten the operating hours and stop buying new books!

Wait, there's more!

Our exclusive, two-faced pointer thingy on the wheel has also landed on closing your most academically successful elementary school for a savings of $5.4 million! Fantastic!

What's that, Johnny?

Our announcer informs me that as an added bonus, we'll eliminate several crossing guards at the remaining schools because those near-minimum wage jobs for fixed income seniors really add up!

Such is life in my hometown. We may be on the alleged Gold Coast but every year the headlines read like we are in the poor house. This is because Stamford, unlike most of our neighboring towns, is really more of a rebounding, old industry city than a wine-and-brie bedroom community. Compared with most of Fairfield County, we have a wider diversity of ethnicity, socioeconomic standing and hamburger joints.

But that builds character … or does it create characters? Either way, it beats white bread.

Because of my city's location amid the home bases of celebrities, hedge fund kings and the plain ol' stinking rich, we tend to get the short end when it comes to state and federal funding for essentials like education and infrastructure repair, even though we have lots of the same issues as our poorer, more urban cousins. Stamford is a city, the Hartford and D.C. types forget, not a hamlet, and something is rotten in the state of the city.

Solution: corporate sponsorship.

Look, I abhor teams and municipalities selling the naming rights to ball parks. I also can't understand why corporations want their name on them because it tends to be a good predictor of whether the buyer is going kaput in the near future. Witness Enron Field in Houston, AmeriQuest Field at The Ballpark in Arlington, and PSINet Stadium in Baltimore. Mark my words, the Mets' new home being called Citi Field isn't good news for the financial giant's employees and stockholders.

But there is a market for it, so why not cash in? Capitalism, like freedom and democracy, separates us from the evil-doers and terrorists, I hear. Also, this is selling out for the sake of community enrichment, not personal riches.

Here are just a few suggestions that involve area corporations:

World Wresting Entertainment can make a nice donation to help keep the local libraries open at normal hours. In return, the city hangs banners at all branch entryways for the year, announcing: "We didn't close down on Mondays thanks to WWE SmackDown on Fridays (8 p.m. on The CW)!"

Priceline could give some financial help to the school system in exchange for high school stadium and sports team advertising. Here's your slogan: "Priceline.com: Where you 'Name Your Own Price' -- but not at the cost of educating Stamford's kids!"

We could spiff up the concession and restrooms areas at our beaches if we get one of the many major beverage distributors headquartered in and around town to pay for their names on these facilities. Welcome to the Pepsi Picnic Pavilion at Cove Island! If Rover does his business in the park, no worries – use one of the complimentary Doritos' Do-Not-Doo-Doo bags to pick it up. Then toss it into one of our many Quaker Oatmeal trash canisters because, while any oatmeal can help lower your cholesterol, only Quaker helps reduce pollution in Long Island Sound!

Disclosure: Those last examples are also shameless plugs and hints for my wife's employer. Hey, corporations have paid bigger bucks for dumber ways to advertise that didn't benefit anyone other than the C-level suits in the long run.

Now, let's take a commercial break.

When we come back, we'll play a round of that annual favorite, "Too Poor to Pay for the Fourth of July Fireworks Show," OK?!