These Claims Of Yours, They Are Not Small

Ladies and gentlemen, the legal system is broken. There is no joy in Lawville. Matlock has left the building.

Take your pick.

I recently took a head-spinning trip through the twisting, turning, rabid squirrel-infested Enchanted Forest of Small Claims Court. I won't bore you with the details of what got me there, other than to say it involved myself, a slightly older lady, the most minor of car accidents, and one of us -- bonus points for guessing correctly -- claiming injuries several months after the fact.

I will not recount the accident itself, because (a) it has no real bearing on anything, (b) it has little intrinsic comedic value, but mostly because (c) retelling a Car Accident Story falls somewhere between the retelling of a Dumped By a Girl in the Parking Lot of a Dokken Concert Story and the retelling of a Trying to Pee in a Big Gulp Cup on a Long Road Trip Story. It's right around there in terms of unsavory details.

Needless to say, I don't get sued all that much. In fact, aside from the time I stole a piece of Root Beer Barrel hard candy from a Brach's Pic-N-Mix display at the age of 6, I have never run afoul of the law. (And for the record, yes, I burst into tears upon leaving the establishment, and wailed to my unsuspecting Mom about how I had committed a serious offense. I was ordered to march back into the store and replace the candy. I consider myself very lucky. If we were in Thailand at the time, I would now be nicknamed "Lefty." Or perhaps even "Lefty One-Eye McLimps-A-Lot.")

So, this world of legal entanglements was just all so freaking new to me. But let me tell you... there is no rush quite like the first time you are served with papers. Man, it's great. Okay, maybe by "great," I mean "embarrassing." And maybe by "embarrassing," I actually mean, "wholly and thoroughly emasculating." But let's not split hairs.

It was a lovely August morning. As I am unemployed, this means I was stumbling around the apartment in my underwear. Important decisions lie ahead of me on this day. Should I take a shower now, or later in the day? What? No shower at all? That's so crazy it just might work. So... how much celery in tuna salad, really, is "too much celery"? Yep, still unemployed. Are dark forces gathering strength, conspiring against me, gradually gearing up for a swift, undeserved karmic kick to the ballsack? Naw, can't be. Then, a knock at the door. Why, this could mean almost anything!

"Mr. Stevens?" chirped the non-threatening male voice behind the door.
"Uh... yes?"
"I have a package for you, sir!"

A package! For me? For me, "Mr. Stevens"? Golly! Whatever could it be?

I open the door, still in boxer shorts, mind you, and a clutch of paperwork is thrust inside. If you are not used to this, here's what will happen: your hand, under its own power, rises up to grab the thing being shoved at you. At 8:12 a.m., the brain -- not that it's any more dependable at, say, 3:47 p.m. -- will not be able to process things fast enough. So your hand shoots up and helpfully takes hold of the Legally Binding Issuance of Court Documents. Hey, thanks a lot, hand. Good job.

At this point, brain woke up, and as the owner of the non-threatening male voice turned and walked away, all I could do was let out a small, wounded sound, like a hamster having a nightmare. "Hernh--!"

Then came the rage. Yea! Don't need any coffee this morning! My old college buddy Rage has swung by for a surprise visit, at 8:13 a.m.! And as I watched the non-threatening process server skipping down my steps, I barked at him:

"A PACKAGE?!"

See, what made me even more angry than the sudden realization that I was being sued was that I was led to believed there was some kind of parcel involved. Process server turned, gave me a little smile, and said, "Yes, just papers... for small claims court." So... no gift, Barry? Barry, I expected more from you.

And then Barry skipped off, to ruin somebody else's Friday morning. I'm not a horrible person, and I realize that Barry was just doing his job. But when human civilization is finally, at long last, conquered by super-intelligent apes, I really hope Barry gets saddled with a job as Assistant Gorilla Ass-Wiper. And every time I pass him on the way to my new job as Human Writer/Producer on the The Late Ape Show with Chimp Chimperson, I will laugh like a four-year-old in the ball pit at Showbiz Pizza.

I spin off into a month-long period of anxiously awaiting the big day in court. I have numerous conversations with my Helpful Yet Affordably Priced Insurance Company. They're nice people. They try to help, really. Did I mention that they are affordably priced?

My insurance company calls me at least twice a week. They never really say anything I actually want to hear.

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. This is Janice over at A.I.S. I don't know how I found out before you, but you just won the 250 million-dollar Powerball jackpot!"

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice at A.I.S. again. It appears that the plaintiff in your small claims case has been repeatedly struck by lightning. And her husband tried to follow through with the lawsuit, until he was crushed by a boulder. Weird, huh?"

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice. Yeah, from A.I.S. For some reason, I've gotten numerous messages from your ex-girlfriends. They just wanted you to know that the guy they left you for is nowhere near as funny as you."

None of that. They just keep reminding me that (a) I am named in a lawsuit and (b) it's usually good if you show up on time to those things, and at the right location. And since I am (a) acutely aware of the impending lawsuit and (b) not a newborn baby, these calls are sort of unnecessary.

While I am a bit of a pessimist, I am not given to all-out despair. So, my interior monologue went into overdrive, trying to preserve my very tender ego. "Hey, nothing you can do about this, Champ. Just weather the storm. Look, Chief... these things happen. You are not being punished. See here, Chester... you will be exonerated. Is that even the right word? And really, was that 'too much celery'? I mean, come on."

Pathetically, my biggest concern the night before the court date was whether or not I should shave. Scoff all you want. When you're unemployed, you turn everything into a Potential But Not Very Lucrative Job. So at this stage, my latest job was growing a sweet mustache. And I gotta tell ya, it had just reached the sweet stage. It looked like I'd been cast in the lead role in "The Rollie Fingers Story."

I had already decided that business casual dress was the way to go. A full suit could come off as a hip, quasi-ironic, smart-ass statement to the judge. And my standard attire of cargo shorts and a mildly pit-stained t-shirt was unadvisable, as well. So, I had a dress shirt, khakis -- even a tie! -- all set aside. Because, hell, I gotta look respectable if I'm gonna try and call a middle-aged woman a liar in a court of law.

Thinking this much about what to wear to small claims court sort of reveals how obsessed I was with the whole situation. "Surely, the judge will see my blue tie and throw out the case!" And putting this much stock into outside appearances is a bit like assuming that the keyboard player from Prince & the Revolution could perform cranial surgery because he wore scrubs and a stethoscope.

Fearing severe judicial punishment, I sent my beloved mustache, screaming and crying, to the bottom of the sink. Sometimes, when pondering, I reach up to see what mustache thinks... and... and... he's not there. The wounds are still fresh, you see.

So, bitterly clean-shaven and mildly respectable-looking, I go to small claims court. There it sat before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division. What, no "Hall of Justice"? C'mon, at least make it sort of fun. Put some guys in suits of armor outside. Maybe a three-headed dog at the door. Something. Jeez.

In I go. If you need to see more wood paneling than existed in all of 1973, I have an address for you. Small claims court is designed to suck the fight out of you. Abandon free will, all who enter here. What's that? You have faith in the inherent decency of your fellow man? Well, just leave that in this plastic receptacle. You won't be needing it in here.

There's little to report about the actual case. I was sort of nervous. Public speaking, in an officious, accurate manner, is not my strong suit. I thought, nerves aside, that the blue tie would have my back. Blue tie let me down.

I lost the case. But I found out the next day, via mail, because they didn't want me to fly into a blind rage and tear up small claims court, I guess. "What do you want?! You want my blood?! TAKE IT!" I honestly harbored a fantasy of recreating the opening scene of "Superman: the Movie." (And, for that matter, the recap at the beginning of "Superman II.")

"You will bow down before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division! You will bow down before me, Judge Pro Tem Monica Feingold! No matter that it takes an eternity! You will bow down before me! Both you, and then one day, your heirs!"

Nope. No big dramatic pronouncements for me. No justice on that day.

But I remain unbroken, true believers. And should the shadow of frivolous injury claims ever darken your door, you look that lying middle-aged woman in the Toyota Camry straight in the eye, and you tell her -- you tell 'em all...

You tell 'em Mustache is coming back to town, and Goatee's coming with him! Yaaaarrr!

From the Land of Sky Blue Waters and Blackened Liver Tissue

I recently had the supreme honor of visiting the Miller Brewery in Milwaukee. I was in town for just a few days, so I assume they bumped a few visiting dignitaries from the tour waiting list to accommodate me. "I'm sorry, Prime Minister Berlusconi, you'll have to wait. And French Culture Minister Renaud Donnedieu de Vabre? Yes, please just take a seat. We have a young man here in a slightly stained t-shirt and flip-flops who absolutely must be given admittance. You too, Mr. Zmed. We'll be with you shortly."

The appeal of the Miller Brewery tour -- and pretty much any brewery tour, I assume -- is not the in-depth description of the brewing process (I don't want to ruin it for you, but it involves hops, boiling, and something that looks like a shuffleboard cue), the detailed history of the company from its humble beginnings (in a small cottage in either Germany, Austria, or Kenosha), or even the historical bottles and cans on display in the brewery lobby. (Get the camera! They've got pull-tops! Remember those?) Yes. Remember when it was slightly less easy to open a can of beer? Those were indeed the Dark Ages.

"Are you tellin' me we can land a sonofabitch in a foil diaper on the time-ravaged surface of our Moon, but I gotta strain to open this 12 ounces of Hamm's? Women can exercise their right to vote, but I work nine hours a day building brake parts only to come home to a beverage container which mocks my very masculinity? We can engineer complex band saws to help the production designer of TV's "Laugh-In" more fully realize his artistic vision, but I almost risk slicing open my forefinger on this Hudepohl? This country's going to hell!"

No, the appeal of the legendary Miller Brewery tour is not the salty nuggets of alcohol-related wisdom but, naturally, the promise of alcohol itself. They give you free beer at the summation of the journey. In the case of Miller, they provide you with three (3) individual samples of fresh brew, of approximately eight (8) ounces each.

Just how "fresh" this beer actually is could be a point of contention, if you're the type to argue with Mr. Free Beer. But I wouldn't really get Mr. Free Beer wound up. He's been known to be polite and talkative for a while, then he'll clam up for an hour or so if his team isn't doing so hot. If you complain to Mr. Free Beer at this point, you're liable to get a billiard rack right in the ol' eye socket.

My friends and I had many theories regarding the origin of the free beer samples, in the period of excitement just before said samples were issued.

1.) It comes straight out of the Giant Beer Holding Tanks! Yes, it's like Willy Wonka! You can rest your distended belly against the cool brass exterior of the Wondrous Suds Tanks and suckle directly from the teat of Mother Beer! This will be the best beer we've ever had!

2.) Buxom blondes in leiderhosen will actually feed us the beer! It will be poured into a series of ever-more-impressive containers! Lyndon B. Johnson's personal beer stein, on loan from his Presidential Library! The actual prop goblet used by Rutger Hauer in "Ladyhawke!" Maybe even the Holy Grail itself! Beer will never be this blasphemously delicious again!

3.) We're not sure, but for some reason, Dabney Coleman and a perfectly cooked prime rib will somehow be involved! Oh, the stories he'll have! Yes, pour another Leinenkugel's and tell us more stories from the set of "Buffalo Bill!" Oh, ecstasy!

4.) They will check our IDs, give us paper wristbands, and then hand us three plastic cups of beer that will come out of kegs. Yes, the same kegs like Dave had at his 22nd birthday. Yeah, the one when Tricia fell down the stairs.

Theory number 4 is the one that proved true, aside from the Dave and Tricia details. Again, I am not one to look askance at Mr. Free Beer, so it was all the same to me. The thing you have to appreciate, fear, or merely shake your head in disgust at, is that the very concept of free beer samples at a brewery encourages drinking and driving.

Sure, you'd have to be a bit of a lightweight to be impaired after drinking 24 ounces of beer. But still, it's not as if any of the people in attendance chanced upon the Miller Brewery while out for a leisurely stroll. "Me and Sherrie and the kids, we was just walking around this lovely forest, looking for a spot to enjoy a picnic lunch, when suddenly, the Flying Miller Monkeys descended upon us. Luckily, I was able to reason with the alpha flying monkey, and he led us back to this fantastical place, from whence Little Baby Beer is born!"

This was two in the afternoon on a Saturday. These are people willing to sit through a 90-minute walking tour for two free beers. And I, heart swelling with pride, was among them. I am, after all, not one of your garden-variety dirty Commies.

But yeah, you drink this beer and then are basically set loose. Out of all the SUVs and family cars in the Miller Brewery Tour Parking Lot, I observed that not a single one, on close inspection, was made of marshmallow or styrofoam packing peanuts. So the idea of all these pink-cheeked beer lovers set loose on the highways of Wisconsin with boiled hop nectar in their stomachs was a bit unsettling. For some of them, it was sure to be known as The Day Daddy Yelled Very Loud About the Triple-A Map Directions and Then Left Us in the Parking Lot of Arby's.

The road from the Free Beer Pavilion winds around the Beer-Making Building and the Older, Historic Beer-Making Building, and even passes by the Really Old Beer Storage Caves. (Just so you know -- underground caverns aren't just for Batman anymore. You can also stuff them with ice and store beer for months at a time! Months, I tell ya! At least, that's what our 17-year-old tour guide told us.) Then, you head back from where you came, and arrive at... the Beer Gift Shop.

Then, it all becomes clear. The beer was merely a lubricant for the inevitable impulse buy. Because the fine people at Miller, like all purveyors of alcohol, know one thing: beer makes you do stuff.

- Beer #1: This is just the Social Beer. You don't want to be an old lady, after all. But this is it. Just a taste and it's back home -- you've got work in the morning, after all. Don't you?

- Beer #2: This is the twin brother of Social Beer. Since he is a twin, he arrives minutes later, and will grow up to be much more annoying than his brother.

- Beer #3: Now you are swearing off all previous anti-drinking statements. The time you met that really nice girl at that party, but you had one too many Bud Ices and the last time she saw you, your head was hanging out of a car going 70 miles per hour, a rivulet of vomit clinging stubbornly to your chin? Then you swore on a King James version of the Bible to "never again" allow that to happen? Oh, you just forgot all about that.

- Beer #4: Now the hardhat goes on. The timecard is punched. The canary goes in the cage.

- Beer #5: Hey, come on! It's Friday! It's not? Tuesday? Really?

- Beer #6: With no awareness of the actual volume of your voice, you tell the story of how you shit your pants on the school bus in fourth grade. A girl seated to your left slowly slides away. You don't notice.

- Beer #7: "Oh, I'll tell you the problem with a two-party political system, my friend. Wait. How can they not have 'China Grove' on this jukebox? This is a bar!"

- Beer #8: Hey, come on! It's Saturday! It's not? Tuesday? Are you sure?

- Beer #9: If you have friends and a cellphone, then the phone will be taken away from you. If you succeed in getting it back, the battery will be removed and given to the bartender. You will be distracted about the missing battery by either the Photo Hunt game, or, depending on the type of beer you're drinking, the lights of Golden Tee 2003.

- Beer #10: "You guys remember that movie that was sponsored by Glad Bags? 'Million Dollar Giveaway,' or something? 'Million Dollar Mystery!' Yeah, that's the one! Wait, I lost my train of thought."

- Beer #11: Your brain leans in close to you and whispers: "Yes, I do think that guy just gave you the finger. You should go talk to him about that. See what he's got to say for himself."

- Beer #12: You relieve yourself for the eighth time tonight. Out of either absent-mindedness or extreme laziness, you don't bother to zip up your fly afterward. This way, it'll just be easier next time, right?

- Beer #13: My God, she's the most amazing thing you've ever seen in your life. Look. Look! She's cleaning up after that guy! She doesn't have to do that -- how nice! Oh, she's the waitress.

So, when you're buzzing off three quick beer samples, and you find yourself in an overly lit gift shop, there's only one thing to do, my friend.

Buy a t-shirt, take the ride.

Good Luck With All the Henching, Man

Hey, congratulations. You've finally completed your Learning Annex course on How to Be a Nameless Lackey/Goon. Here's your complimentary denim vest and Cobray MAC-10 submachine gun. Use both with pride, Terry. But before you go, a few questions, if I may.

Do you know the man you're working for? Really well? Is he an Eastern European drug dealer? An acid-scarred shipping magnate? What's that? He's a microwaveable breakfast treats tycoon-turned-religious zealot?

What about your specific job? What do they demand of you? Will it be primarily to shoot at the hero as he approaches, or are they expecting some mild torture as well? If the hero is being held at gunpoint, and your employer taunts him, will you be required to laugh, possibly while chewing on a toothpick or match?

Hold on there, Doug. Have you even picked a job skill yet? An area of specialization? You gotta take this seriously, man. There's dozens of possible assignments out there in the Henchman/Flunky/Underling/ Stooge/Minion department. If you don't pick the right one, you're gonna find yourself, at the very least, getting kicked in the nuts by Marc Singer. And I think we'd both like to avoid that.

Guy Driving the Limo:
Opt out of this job, if you can. Because there will likely be an incident in the back seat, involving a fight over a gun, and then... you guessed it. You're gonna get shot in the back of the head. So much for that pension plan.

Guy Standing In Front of Several Metal Barrels:
Skip this assignment, too. You will be susceptible to an explosion from behind, which will hurtle you, end over end, probably right toward some other barrels. No, I don't know what those barrels are doing there, either.

Guy with Switchblade:
Man, you went right for that switchblade, didn't ya, Mark? No element of surprise for you; not even an attempt at, "Well, guess what? I've got a... switchblade!" You pulled that thing out of your boot at the BEGINNING of the fight. Well, now you're gonna have your elbow broken back the wrong way, you'll wail like a little girl, and then get thrown into a jukebox. It may even start playing a humorous song at this point. Oh, Switchblade Mark. You've become a joke, even in death.

Guy Firing Gun from Great Height:
What were you even doing all the way up there, Chester? Trying to find the best possible way to get impaled? Well, guess what -- you win! Hopefully you're not near a highly disorganized construction site, an abandoned church, or a tetherball court. But with your luck, you are.

Guy Who Takes on Hero After Hero Has Just Beaten Up Eight Other Guys:
Decided to hang back and see how the fight progressed, huh? Smooth move. See, since the hero has just brutally killed eight other people, your death will be especially gruesome. It's the natural law of things, Paul. So, expect to have your elbow broken the wrong way (yes, again), your nose shoved into your brain, or in some instances, your arm broken off completely and then shoved into your nasal cavity. Where do we send the flowers?

Guy Who Is the Only Female Member of Evil Gang:
At first, this probably seemed like a great idea. You get all the benefits and kickbacks of being a member of the villain's gang, but you're also a woman, and you expect to be spared any harm. Well, you probably didn't notice that the hero has a love interest. If you still haven't picked her out yet, she'll be the person repeatedly kicking you in the face in about forty minutes.

Guy Who Is the Token Gigantic Guy:
Another area of physical specialization, and one which you were pretty confident about selecting. But here's the snag, Hossberry: because of your exaggerated size and the threat you pose, you will die in the most humorous and/or embarrassing way possible. Here's how to know that your death is imminent:
(1) You are large.
(2) The hero made some crack when you walked into the warehouse, something like, "Here we go again," "This is gonna hurt," or simply, "Well, shit."
(3) You have kicked the hero in the stomach two or three times.
Even though it appears that you have the upper hand -- whoops. You've just been strangled by a dog's choke chain. Or maybe crushed by a fifteen-ton storage bin. And in some cases, been dumped into a vat of molten lead. Giant guy played by Tiny "Zeus" Lister, we hardly knew ye.

Guy Who Is the Torturer's Assistant:
You're just doing your job, by handing the guy with the weird accent a series of ice picks, electroshock nodules, and, in a few cases, methed-up garden snakes, for his use against the hero. But your lack of knowledge regarding the affects of sodium pentathol will leave you at quite a disadvantage, Craig. You'll be quickly dispatched, probably by a snapped neck, so that the torturer's tools, in a clever twist, can then be used against him.

Guy Standing Near Spinning Helicopter Blades:
Self-explanatory.

Guy Who Takes a Swing at McCloud:
A classic rookie henchman mistake. McCloud, while a soft-spoken and relatively genial fellow, don't take too kindly to cityfolk getting rowdy and causing a ruckus. You will be punched squarely on the jaw and taken downtown.

Guy Who Gloats to Hero in the Form of Obvious Questions:
What? You're talking? That's not in the job description, Riley. Sure, when you had the hero chained up by his ankles, and you and Byron took turns gut-punching him, all seemed well. Then you had to go and open your mouth: "Who's tough now, huh? HUH?!" You just set yourself up for the quick death/easy one-liner combo. Who's tough now? Not you, kid.

Guy Who Happens to be Asian:
Since you just happen to be Asian, you also just happen to be highly skilled in at least twenty-six forms of martial art. Nunchuka? Gotcha. Kendo sticks? Check. Repeatedly kicking dudes? Yep. You've got all the bases covered. Unfortunately, the guy you're going up against is an alcoholic ex-cop. His piece and shield have been relinquished to the chief. That little kid you've got tied up? That's his only son. And while you will give the ex-cop a run for his money, you're really no match, Kevin. That oughta teach you, for trying to utilize the rich combative history of your ancestors.

Guy with Fancy Weapon:
Boy, I bet you were really happy the day you went down to Costco and picked up that new flamethrower, huh? Or that nifty machine gun/grenade launcher combo. Or even that semi-automatic crossbow. But guess what, Clive? Now it's gonna be used against you, and it's not even completely paid for yet.

Guy Wearing Bolo Tie:
You will have your throat ripped out by Patrick Swayze, or possibly Michael Dudikoff. Actually, that warning was right there, printed clearly on the side of your new bolo tie's packaging.

Guy Who Steals Getaway Vehicle from Nice Old Lady:
Well, you've made several blunders here. For one, you've shown how much of a total jerk you really are, by stealing a car from a nice old lady after committing a crime. And, since you've stolen a car from a nice old lady, it's a Ford LTD. The hero will make you pay for your insolence, probably by throwing a spear-like object (crowbar, javelin, or over-sized novelty toothbrush) through your windshield. This will impale you in the head, and naturally cause the Ford LTD to explode.

Guy Near Construction Crane:
I'm still not sure about this one, but for some reason, you will burst into flame and dive into several carefully arranged cardboard boxes.

So there we go. Just a few pointers for you -- what's that? You don't need to take advice from some old creep with an eyepatch?

Huh? What? You don't even wonder how I got this eyepatch?

Alright, fine. Well, good luck shaking down the residents of that small desert town and seizing control of the old junkyard. I'm sure that'll all work out perfectly for you.

Damned kids.

For Those About to Rock, We Salute Your Choice of Punctuation

If you're in the band .38 Special, then life's gotta be pretty sweet. Hey, I don't need to point that out to you -- you're in .38 Special, so you totally know where I'm coming from.

If you're not in the band .38 Special, then you're just stumbling through life, which for you is a series of non-.38 Special events, relationships, and crises unfolding in a somewhat predictable cycle. You await the day when you finally shuffle off this mortal coil, in a decidedly non-.38 Special way, and are laid to rest in your non-.38 Special casket in the boring, non-rock band section of the cemetery.

But, let's say, for the sake of argument, that you are in fact a member of .38 Special. Well, then, kudos to you, sir. Because through a bizarre confluence of technology and punctuation, .38 Special have emerged as the absolute center of what people who write for USA Today like to call "The Digital Music Revolution."

Granted, this generalization only works if (a) you own an iPod, and (b) you have any songs by .38 Special. The iPod, despite an unfortunate ad campaign that features everyone's favorite thing, horrifically flailing silhouettes, is quite popular. And there's little wonder why.

The iPod has a stunning array of wonderful features, such as Apple's patented Super-Scratchable Not-At-All-Protective Screen. Which wouldn't be a problem, if you could keep your iPod in an ionized, Lexan-coated chamber, instead of using it as a portable music-playing device. Alas, we have the iPod so we can move freely about the globe with the whole of C+C Music Factory at our disposal, and with this traveling comes the scratching. One time, I casually exhaled in the direction of my iPod and it was instantly scuffed.

And if that aspect doesn't sell you, there's always the iPod's revolutionary Randomly Selected Battery Capacity. Because nobody wants to spend a couple hundred dollars on a device that stores your entire CD collection AND is also dependable. You want something that will either play for nine hours straight, or otherwise will sit charging for a day and then conk out eleven minutes into a transcontinental plane flight. No, that's cool... I'll just read the in-flight magazine.

(In-flight magazines, without fail, always feature two things: a profile of that specific airline's CEO, and then, right after it, several close-up photos of a glistening porterhouse steak from a place called Ricki's in Gallup, New Mexico.)

But the most stunning feature of the iPod is the Super-Sensitive Buttons Intended Only For the Fingers of Kittens. These buttons ensure that your iPod, for security purposes, can only be operated by Billy Barty. And, at least on the model I have, they're not actually buttons, but touch-sensitive circles. So you can't ever be sure if you've pressed the button, or grazed the button, or allowed a hummingbird feather to fall somewhere near the button.

So, you will likely hit the Play button once too often, and then, magically... here comes .38 Special. Without fail, every single time.

The iPod organizes songs alphabetically by artist. And so, since their band name begins not only with a number, but a highly ranked number, and is also preceded by punctuation, .38 Special wins the Galactic Band Name Lottery.

They really stuck it to those smartasses in 4 Non Blondes, huh? And I bet if there's a band called .44 Calibre, or .5 Pounds of German Potato Salad, then they're pretty pissed off, too. Yet not as pissed as the unfortunate members of .39 Special. Sorry about your luck, guys.

Actually, the only real band brazen enough to even threaten .38 Special's random iPod dominance is the now-defunct 'Til Tuesday. Sure, they could've gone with the alternate spelling, with "Till," but they had the presence of mind to fling a change-up at the world of rock, in the form of our friend, the apostrophe.

So you see, the only way you can top .38 Special is by beating them at their own game. And don't say to me, "Well, .38 Special has been churning out a solid form of charming Southern rock for nearly three decades. There's no way they could have foreseen the advent of the iPod. Your theory is flawed, Kevin."

Well, that seems to discount .38 Special's obvious brilliance, both at predicting the rise of a popular digital music player, and at possessing intimate knowledge of its exact method of content indexing. And also, my name is not Kevin.

These guys knew what they were doing. They were setting the stage for the world's slowest cultural revolution. They've been waiting, patiently, in the safety of their converted diamond mine on .38 Special Island, since 1987, just for this plot to unfold.

So that, every time you try in vain to pause, then play, a song... you inevitably screw up, and the iPod defaults to playing the first song by the first artist, alphabetically, and you are suddenly ensnared by the opening notes of "Hold On Loosely."

But they can't stay at the top forever, folks. In fact, it's as if .38 Special have reached out to young bands and said, "Here is the way."

If you have just started a band, congratulations. This means you have also just turned fourteen. And here comes the best part of starting a band -- coming up with a name. My advice, in this iPod-worshipping world? Why, of course -- just go nuts with the punctuation and numbers.

The period appears to be the punctuation king, so start off with one or more of those. Get tricky and toss in a semicolon if you're feeling brazen. Maybe a dash, while we're at it? Good thinking. Then come the numbers. Naturally, you'll wanna start with 1. From there, use your imagination. Have fun with it, gang! You're in a band! Naming yourself will be the last fun thing you do! Trust me, it's all downhill from here, what with the Grammys and the heroin and the eventual plane crash in Nebraska.

And so, to the future members of ...1 & 1/2 Arbor Days, I bid you good luck. I'll catch up with you at next year's Bonnaroo Festival. I'll be there with my speed metal quartet, .......+,##[\[\\{;'"1111111A. See you at the party after the show.

Going to Las Vegas Is Like Being Sewn Inside a Circus Clown's Ass

No, oddly enough, I do not write for Fodor's.

I don't hate Las Vegas, by any means. Please understand me. It's a big, loud mess, and it's all about drinking, and conducting oneself in an ill-advised manner with very few repercussions, and then watching other people do dumb stuff, as well. I'm not a snob. I enjoy all the aforementioned activities. It's just that when somebody decided to roll every vice and sin into a single point on the map, maybe they could've warned us first.

This was actually the second choice by the Las Vegas Touristry Board: "Come Stare Into the Great Gaping Vortex Of That Which Should Not Be!" So they went with that "What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas" tagline instead.

So I don't hate Vegas. It's just too much. Too much. And yes, I also understand that this is the point of Vegas: to have too much of everything. Actually, the point of Vegas is to rob you. And the secondary aim of Vegas is also to rob you. So the third, possibly fourth, goal of Las Vegas, Nevada is to be the receptacle of all that is big and loud and overpowering.

I sacrificed myself to this city-sized Furnace of Hopes and Dreams a few weekends back. If you drive into Vegas, once you hit the Nevada border, you will already hear the city itself start to scream at you, from over the hills. For some reason, it sounds like a poker buddy of your dad's who always spoke a little too loud, made the dog piss the carpet, and just generally frightened you when you were seven years old.

"Come to Las Vegas! This steak is the size of a small child! Forty-seven pounds of Grade-A beef that should not be consumed by a single person! And it's a dollar! A DOLLAR!"

"This casino has gold fixtures in the shitter! Gold! In the shitter! You barely even deserve this, you damned animal! And it's A DOLLAR!"

"This cocktail waitress is 116 years old! And made of actual beef jerky! She's had all vital fluids syphoned from her body and given to Steve Wynn! And she'll bring ya a vodka-cranberry that's only ONE DOLLAR!"

So you arrive in Las Vegas and the madness intensifies -- it's hotter and brighter than the Crab Nebula, and there's more color than there should ever be in a single place. There are colors that, if stared at directly, will cause you to wet your pants. Your rods and cones begin to bleed.

There are casinos that look like palaces, casinos that look like miniaturized cities, and casinos that look like entire ancient civilizations. Look over there! It's the Jamestown Colony Hotel & Casino! The valets are all dressed like rampaging Algonquins! Woo-hoo, watch out! Wait a minute, what's that over there? "The Pianist" Lounge & Casino? They can't do that, can they? Honey, look! Adrien Brody, live on stage every night! And they've got Keno!

So you're there, you're in friggin' Las Vegas. And dammit, you gotta do it right, right? You gotta cut loose, yeah? Sure, you're unemployed and just got served with papers to appear in Small Claims Court (just as an example) -- but c'mon, bro! Don't you deserve this? Just then, Vegas transforms from your dad's poker buddy into a tiny, gossamer-winged trickster. You're Fred Flintstone, and the entire city is the Great Gazoo.

You find yourself doing things you normally would not do. You blame the TV commercials. But... but... they told me it would all stay here.

Three Jack and Cokes in thirty minutes? Of course. Uh, see... the alcohol evaporates in the desert heat. Plus, I wanna get "warmed up." And also... don't look at me like that, you traitor! You're trying to steal my soul!

A hundred dollars on a game I don't know how to play? Yes, sir. Now, should I give you the entire contents of my wallet now, or should we parcel it out? What's that? You're gonna take my fingers? What does that mean, sir?

"The World's Greatest Celebrity Impersonator?" Say, those words don't even make sense, grouped together like that! Vegas, are you sure about that?

And you wake up the next morning, your pants are undone, there's a wad of spearmint gum in your hair, a sweatsock (not yours) stuffed in your mouth, and somehow you've got a partially melted nickel embedded in your forehead.

For real, the day I left Las Vegas, the backs of my hands started to sweat. My body knew that something was wrong. Either that, or the only pure water left in my body was making a break for it.

And to make matters worse, the city yells at you as you leave. Hot breath on your neck, spittle collecting in the cracks of its giant mouth -- "Where ya goin', pussy? Headed home, huh? HUH?! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Yes, Vegas. I'm headed home. See you next year.