In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy (22 page)

SHOWER KNOBS IN HOTELS

Some have the one you pull out and turn, others have the one that looks like a stick shift, some have the dial that goes clockwise to get hotter, others have the dial that goes counterclockwise. Some even have the old-school two knobs, one for hot and one for cold, that you have to mix. No matter what form it takes, it’s never what you have at home or what was in the last hotel you stayed in.

How many millions of gallons of water are wasted each year by scared travelers who are afraid to step into the shower because they don’t understand the knobs and don’t know if it’s going to be colder than liquid nitrogen or boil them alive like a lobster? Like the airport, the hotel is a well-regulated zone. Every three-hundred-pound fire door on every room has a pneumatic closer attached to it, as required by law. Couldn’t we add just one more code about using the same shower knob that’s at Adam’s house?

POWER BUTTONS

I have a hundred remote controls for all the electronic devices in my house. And between these hundred remotes there are a hundred different locations for the power button. The power button used to just be a big red button in the upper left-hand corner. It was the most important button and therefore got the prime spot. Now they’re spread out all over the remote like Al Qaeda sleeper cells. There is no consistency. TiVo banished the power button to the middle of the remote and shrank it down to the size of a blackhead. Thank God our forefathers only had one television set so they didn’t have to deal with this.

I had to put nail polish on the power button of my digital camera because it’s chrome on a strip of chrome. And right next to it is an indistinguishable button that does God knows what but has a little lightning-bolt symbol, which could easily mean power. But hey, it’s a Kodak. They’re new to the photography game. They’ll figure it out eventually.

The point is that we need some goddamn uniformity. Every time I travel, I spend the first twenty minutes in my hotel room staring at the remote with drool dripping out of my mouth like Kim Kardashian looking at a chessboard. There are certain things we’ve agreed on in society that have made everything easier. All side-by-side refrigerators have the freezer on the left, doorknobs all turn toward the hinges to open, we all drive on the right side of the road. How many more head-on collisions would there be if it were like, “Well, I have a Ford, so I drive on the left”?

SOFA-BOTTOM HEIGHT

We need to standardize sofa height as well. I have a couple of sofas in my house and underneath every one is a graveyard for tennis balls and Hot Wheels. Anybody who has a dog, a child, or, like me, both, knows the pain and the knee ache of mashing his face against the filthy floor and stretching in vain for a Hot Wheel that is just out of reach. There is a code if you build railings that the pickets can’t be more than four inches apart because a child’s head could go through them and get stuck. Why not apply this same simple logic to sofas? Whether you have to lower them down to the ground or surround them with a heavy-duty dust ruffle, they should all have to pass this simple test: If Andre Agassi’s dad can fire a tennis ball underneath it using that device he ruined his kid’s childhood with, it can’t be sold in the United States. And what the fuck is with sofa-bottom heights anyway? I’m staring at one as I write this that’s three and a half inches off the ground. Tall enough to accommodate doggie toys, cell phones, and TV remotes, but not tall enough to get a vacuum or your arm under. Isn’t this the worst of all possible worlds?

BEER BOTTLES AND CANS

As you should know by now, I like myself a beer. In my long and storied boozing career, I’ve gotten drunk out of every type of bottle and can.

I like a twist-off on my beer bottle. Once we perfected the twist top in the late sixties, that should have been that. The twist-off cap has existed for the Bible’s definition of a generation, but some beers still have the pop-top. And there’s no designation to let you know which kind of top you’ve got. Every Budweiser bottle is a twister except the stupid aluminum bottle, which you don’t find out about until you scrape all the skin off your thumb and begin to question your masculinity trying to open it.

Beer is much better out of a bottle than a can. I think we can all agree on that. But a can will do in a pinch. I don’t really have a problem with the beer can, but it does fit into the same category as the ketchup packet. All the people constantly sanitizing their hands are putting their lips directly onto a piece of aluminum that has gone from a factory in Atlanta into the back of a dirty truck to the regional distribution center, then sat in that warehouse collecting a nice layer of dust and forklift-exhaust particles until it ended up in the storeroom of the gas station where you bought it. For the month before the Indian guy ended up stocking it in that fridge, cockroaches were having drag races on it. And worse than just putting your lips on the can, you crack that little tab and push it into the drink. This filthy patch of metal is now dipped into your beer. Every sip you take has to flow across this dam of disease.

But the worst beer-delivery system is the plastic bottle at the stadium that’s shaped like the glass bottle. I understand that one too many people got clocked in the head by a shit-faced shithead Raiders fan, but the idea that we had to get the good people at Hasbro involved because we can’t stop throwing them onto the field is sad. That cold glass bottle feels great; it’s pathetic to be sitting in the bleachers drinking your Miller High Life from a sippy cup.

And I’m not one of those cancer hysterics, but after it’s been sitting in the sun you can smell the BPA emanating from the plastic bottle. I’m sure when that bottle gets warm plastic particles are breaking off, getting into the beer and thus into your body. In fifty years when we all have colon cancer from this, we’ll be wishing we had stuck with the glass bottles and lived with the couple of downed referees.

Also, the plastic bottle does you no good in a bar fight. Do you know how ridiculous it looks to take an unbreakable plastic bottle, bounce it off a mahogany bar top, and say, “Come get some!”

PUSH/PULL

This is something we need to improve and get on the same page about. The
PUSH
and
PULL
labels on the door should be
PUSH
and
YANK
. I’m not Evelyn Wood, but when I’m walking and talking on a cell phone I just see the
PU
- and end up smashing into the door. How many people have crashed into that aluminum diner door and been embarrassed?
Push
and
pull
are too close.
Entrance
and
exit
shouldn’t start with the same letter, either. And I’m this close to going off about
on
and
off
.

Contractions fuck everything up:
could
and
couldn’t, has
and
hasn’t
, et cetera. Take
does
and
doesn’t
. They have exactly the opposite meaning, yet if your cell phone has a spotty connection, you could end up thinking that someone
doesn’t
love you and
does
have cancer. We constantly make things harder on ourselves.

We also do this with confusing street names. This happens everywhere, but I feel it’s particularly bad in Los Angeles. We have a Santa Monica Boulevard, and underneath it there is a street called Little Santa Monica. Here’s the easy way to tell them apart. Santa Monica Boulevard connects with Beverly Glen, Beverly Drive, and Beverly Boulevard. Little Santa Monica only connects to Beverly Drive. And that all takes place in a ten-block radius. What could go wrong?

Why do they always put these streets right next to each other? My buddy Jack grew up in a part of town called the Doñas. Every street in this square-mile section is named Doña Pequita, Doña Marta, Doña Emelia, et cetera. What the fuck?

Dear functionally illiterate developers or evil/maniacal city officials: The very essence of naming things is to distinguish one from another. If you put Bluebird Way next to Bluebird Circle, which is above Bluebird Drive, that flies in the face of this goal. My fantasy is that I one day find one of these motherfuckers, break into his house, wrangle his entire family at machete point into the living room, and ask, “What’s your son’s name?” “Lance.” “Okay, good. From now on your wife, your daughter, and your dog are all going to answer to the name Lance. Now enjoy the rest of your tortured, confusing life.”

Whether it’s hospital gowns, hotel pillows, snooze bars, or street names, the question remains: Why do we insist on fucking with ourselves?

DO YOURSELF
A FAVOR

I have so much to give to my kids. Not monetarily or emotionally—I won’t get off the couch. But I will yell so many things at them that will enrich their lives. I hope that if you’ve learned anything in the course of reading this book, it’s that I’m a genius. I have a lot of wisdom to impart. Please read these tips and incorporate them into your life. Not only for you but for me, so I don’t have to deal with you.

HOUSEHOLD TIPS

MICROWAVE COOKING TIMES
The next time you’re putting something in the microwave, instead of tossing it in for a minute, put it in for fifty-five seconds or a minute and eleven seconds. Gain back the time you spend moving your finger from the 1 to the 0 and just hit 5 twice or 1 three times. What’s the difference between thirty seconds and thirty-three seconds to your cup of coffee? It’s not like that extra three seconds is going to burn your tongue off. The same rule applies all the way up. Two and a half minutes becomes 2:22, three and a half or four minutes becomes 3:33. Five minutes becomes 4:44. There is no 5:55. You shouldn’t be eating anything that takes six minutes to microwave. Anything that takes that long should be boiled, baked, or fried. It may seem silly, but when you’re on your deathbed and you remember all the wonderful things you did in the extra forty-nine seconds you accumulated over the course of your life using this technique, you’ll thank me.

One more quick microwave-related tip. Toss your breakfast/protein bar into the microwave and give it a five-second shot just to soften it up.

HOME SECURITY
You should get yourself a barrel bolt lock for your bedroom door. It’s literally a three-dollar item that anybody with a Phillips-head screwdriver could install.

It’s not going to stop the shoulder of an ATF agent when they storm your house. But if you’re a teenage boy, it will stop Stepmom from interrupting a spirited solo session, or if you’re a teenage girl, you can avoid the uncomfortable silence that comes after waking up to discover Stepdad standing at the foot of your bed with a beer in his hand and his sweatpants around his ankles. Amorous couples with young children can also benefit greatly from this three-dollar investment. And you can avoid the scariest story on the news: “I woke up to see the crack addict standing over my bed holding rusty hedge clippers.” If you want to go whole hog, you can install a dead bolt in your bedroom door, and that will give you time to get your gun.

I’m into gun safety as much as the next white supremacist. But I don’t understand having something in your house for protection, keeping that device empty on the upper shelf of your closet, and the thing that makes the device effective—namely, the bullets—in a lockbox in the garage. I know it’s safe, but the main people it’s protecting are intruders. What if I said, “You should keep this Taser on your nightstand for safety but bury the battery for it in a mason jar in the backyard”? Would that make sense to anybody?

Here’s my best-of-all-worlds home-protection plan. Get a shotgun. Not a Jed Clampett double-barreled type, and not a long skeet-shooting type. A shorter-barreled, lighter, law-enforcement-style shotgun. They’re not terribly expensive, they hold eight rounds, and some even have a flashlight built into the barrel. The sound of the pump alone is enough to drive off the highest of intruders. But if that doesn’t work, you don’t have to be a marksman. Here’s where the tip kicks into overdrive. Make the first round a blank. That way if the neighbor kid comes back drunk at three
A.M
. and crawls through the wrong window, all he’ll get is sobering backfire instead of his head blown off. If the pump and the warning shot don’t stop you, the next round is rock salt. If you get past that you’re hell-bent on hurting me and my family, that’s why the next six rounds are live. Trigger-squeeze number three is a full round into your chest. (That sound you just heard was Ted Nugent jizzing in his pants.)

But, as I’ve always said, the best form of home security is a Confederate flag. The Stars and Bars on the flagpole in front of the house lets everyone know not only do you have guns, but you’re probably cleaning them right now. If you, as a white male in your thirties (I’ve seen the ADT ads), are casing a neighborhood and deciding which house is your home-invasion target, which are you going to hit, the house with the Confederate flag or the one with the hummingbird feeder and the cat-count sticker for the firefighters? If that feels slightly too racist for you, then the next best thing is the Don’t Tread on Me flag. It’s the same connotation—this is the home of a proud NRA member who is ready, willing, and able to fill your ass with buckshot if you so much as step on the lawn.

AVOID SLIPPERS WITH HARD BOTTOMS
Don’t get me wrong, by all means get a nice pair of slippers. Especially if you have tile floors. But the ones with the rubber soles eventually turn into shoes. Each time you step out of the house in those, you get a little bit farther from home and a little bit closer to homeless. It starts innocently enough: “I’m just grabbing the mail.” Then it’s “I’m hitting the drive-through—it’s not like I’m getting out of the car.” Soon enough it becomes “I’m just going to the liquor store—what do those losers care?” Eventually you show up at the office: “Hey, it’s casual Friday, these look like Top-Siders.” And finally: “So what if I’m going to the Oscars. It’s shabby chic.” I’m telling you, it’s a slipper-y slope. (Good stuff, Ace man.)

BRIGHT-COLORED WALLET
Avoid black wallets. Many cars, including my own, have black leather seats and black carpet. At night when the black wallet falls out of the sweatpants and gets lodged between the black seat and the black carpet on the transmission hump, it becomes undetectable by the human eye. Now you’ve got no cash and an irate hooker. I actually went to the length of spray-painting my wallet red. This is an endless source of amusement for everyone in my life, but that was five years ago and I’m still going strong with the same wallet. So suck it, naysayers.

The way to avoid this problem altogether is tip number 255: Only purchase sweatpants with zippers on the pockets.

DIGITAL TIMER
Get a digital kitchen timer and put it on your nightstand. It’s great as a backup if you have an important engagement. Let’s say you absolutely need to wake up at six
A.M
. to get ready for a job interview or court date. You’ll go to bed at midnight and set the alarm. Then also do some quick math and set the timer for six hours: That way if there’s a power outage, or if in a haze you slap the snooze bar, you’re covered.

That’s just one use for the digital timer. It’s also great for naps. Oftentimes when people take a nap they’re afraid of going too long and fucking up their sleep cycle or missing the kid’s recital. So they end up sleeping with one eye open, which defeats the purpose of the nap. Rather than resetting the alarm clock, just set the timer for however long you want to nap. And of course be sure to add an extra three minutes for beating off.

I may not be like most people, but I don’t get up at the same time every day. Instead of setting an alarm to different times every night, I just use the digital timer. It’s also good for travel if you want to take that nap and can’t figure out the hotel clock.

PUT YOUR PHONE NUMBER ON STUFF
Whether it’s your iPhone, wallet, or laptop, put a nice sticky label with your phone number on it so if it gets lost you at least have the chance of getting it back.

I have my phone number written on the inside of my wallet with
IF FOUND PLEASE CALL
.… We did an experiment on my radio show where we left wallets in various parts of Los Angeles. There was no identification and no credit cards, just one hundred dollars cash and a phone number written in them. People found the wallets and called the show. They didn’t know it was a radio stunt—they just found a wallet and wanted to get it back to the rightful owner. You have to realize that nine out of ten times, a lost wallet is not going to be found by a criminal. Criminals don’t go looking for stuff on the ground. Usually it’s going to be found by some hardworking, Godfearing busboy taking the subway to work. Despite what you may think, people are fundamentally decent and will do the right thing if given the opportunity.

LABELS
If you’re living in a home that has more than one portable phone—kitchen, den, bedroom, et cetera—put a label on each one so you won’t mix them up and they’ll find their way back to their correct cradle. You can go the extra mile and make a nice label with the Brother P-touch (which sounds like a monk who molests kids).

Also, while we’re on phones. Shut the ringer off on the bedroom phone. You’ll hear the ring from the one that’s in the office and never be startled by the one that’s two feet from your head.

SIXTY-DOLLAR AIR COMPRESSOR FROM HOME DEPOT
You don’t have to be a contractor to get use out of these things. Invest in one of these and you won’t have to go to the gas station to inflate your car or bike tires. You won’t blow out a lung inflating pool toys and air mattresses. You can use it to dry your laptop after you dump a cup of coffee on the keyboard. I’m not even going to get into the sexual possibilities.

MULTIPLES
When you go to the store to buy nail clippers, screwdrivers, scissors, or other little items that you use every day, buy a couple and spread them around your house. Put some in your car and your office, too. Have a pair of scissors in every room. These things literally cost pennies and are easily lost. So have backups. The eighty-five cents you invest in a second pair of toenail clippers is more than worth it when you don’t have to run around the house looking for them. In general this tip is more about time versus money. People are constantly kicking their own ass to save a nickel. How much is your time worth? Spend a little bit extra and get those precious minutes back to enjoy your loved ones—in my case, my cars.