Twenty Questions

1. Why do airline rates change ever 3.4 seconds?
2. Why is the Bachelor still on the air?
3. And related: Why are the Bachelors ALWAYS white?
4. Why is there so much salt added to ALL processed foods?
5. ​What's the appeal of cats? Or CATS for that matter?
6. Why do women of a certain age give into the hairstyle fondly known as the 'senior afro'?
7. Why is high school pumped as the best of times?
8. Why do the people who need counseling the most, never get it?
9. Why are so many Americans hating on immigrants, while eating pizza?
10. Why are we acting like the social structure of families has no impact on education?
11. Where do babies come from? (Just checking if you're still with me.)
12. Why do talented artists like, say Lenny Kravitz and Jose James, have to go to Europe to sell out shows?
13. What is the fascination with Alex and Ani bangles?
14. How does gay marriage negatively impact you? No. Really.
15. Why are people that are the most religious often the least holy?
16. Why did the Patriots let Wes Welker go?
17. Why do Americans NEVER DRESS UP?
18. Where does the weight go when you lose it?
19. Why do some people assume your life experience is exactly like theirs?
20. What are you wondering about?​ Go on. Comment below.

I'm Writing Towards The New World

It's official. I'm going to start channeling the spirit of Christopher Columbus. 

No doubt. We are homies for sure. (Well, beyond that pesky issue of enslaving the indigenous people of Hispaniola. I'm so not hip with that.)

It's being true to his passion that I can get with.

Behold: Sailing. Otherwise known as today's metaphor for life.

Cue the Christopher Cross music. Well, if Cross had written a ballad about being attacked by French privateers on his first voyage into the Atlantic in 1476, where his ship got torched and he had to swim to shore.

Meet passion.

Without it, there'd be no confidence to throw out the crazytown idea of a shorter, safer way to India and volunteer to be the dude to find it. Passion is the difference between giving up, putting your tail between your legs and going home, when someone says, thanks, but no thanks. (Hello Portugal). 

Passion is what gives you the strength to keep knocking, until someone gives you a boat. Or three. Passion guides you in the wide, open, unpredictable water, when there's no dolphin pod whistling sounds of encouragement, no sign that says "Bahamas. Ten miles ahead" or no idea of how long it's going to take you to get to where you think you're going in the first place.

Passion keeps you on track during those days when you're tired of bobbing in the ocean, can't imagine eating another meal of salted sardines and dry ass sea biscuits and you just want to go home to your straw bed.

It's passion that steps up and takes command when there's no concrete assurance, other than the maps you've lightly sketched out and the vague feeling that you're on the right track.

That ticket to the New World?

Only one currency accepted.

What Are You Gonna Be When You Grow Up?

What are you gonna be when you grow up?

Standard question. Usually posed to a six-year-old. Generally by someone who doesn't want to be talking to a six-year-old. 

The predictable answers-- a teacher, police officer, whatever profession mommy or daddy are currently 'suggesting'--not so much the problem. The real issue? The casual planting, into young impressionable minds, of a universally belief that can easily torture them for the rest of their lives.

This concept of 'be-ing' when you 'grow up'. 

Because, truth is, aren't you just raising more questions? Like when do you grow up? And how are you supposed to 'be' once you get there? 

I'd hazard a guess most people believe the growing up part is supposed to be over and done with by 40. Wanna hazard a guess at the most depressed group of people in the United States according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention? Yes siree. The grown-ups: ages 40-59. Coincidence? Highly doubtful.

So, hey, here's a radical thought. Maybe we need to stop gauging our progress by preconceived notions and assumptions that are supposed to go along with maturity. You know, those physical, financial and professional benchmarkers ripe for self-comparison and self-loathing.

And maybe if you stop worrying about what you're going to be when you grow up, you can focus on the real task at hand.

 Of just fricken growing.

Craigslist Translated: A Public Service

Why do you need a writer?

To most effectively communicate your message to a target audience, of course. 

In, what surely BEGS to be only the first in a repeating series,  I've decided to take my mad editing skills, free of charge, to an occasional (Wackadoo) Craigslist ad, putting the before and after on my blog, you know, as the most public of services. (And to prove once and for all, just because you can type, does not mean that you can write.)

First up, this beaut:

Travel Writer (East Coast, Carribean, onward)

Talented travel writer, blogger, photographer needed to journal yacht adventure of couple's adventure and struggles and fun as they move instantly from modest beginnings to instant great wealth. Up to year long trip will be from east coast through the Caribbean onward (ending up who nows where) and include adventure on new luxury yacht-Mochi Dolphin 74 named Sussurus. Right person person will love the sea, enjoy snorkeling, jet skiing, island hiking, etc. One hour of yacht housekeeping duties required daily and occasional light meal making. Please send resume/cv, cover letter, link to writing sample(s), picture of self, and any questions along with salary requirements, also if you would be bringing a friend or companion. Onboard Accommodations and meals will be provided. I/we will make agreeable arrangements to meet you prior to trip to insure compatibility for everyone. I'm (37 years old) and expect deliver of yacht early May and hope to leave approx. May 15, 2013.

Clearly, at the very minimum, the author is in great need of a proofreader. Spelling. Punctuation. Grammar. Whew. What offense hasn't been committed? (And really? You've come into great wealth, are in need of a ghostwriter to inhabit your personal space for a year--and you're starting your hunt on Craigslist?)  The only thing I know for sure is writing just ain't your thang. In fact, I'd argue that what you said, isn't what you mean.

So I reworked it for you. Ta-DA!

Travel Whore (East Coast)

Desperate, starving, naive artist-type needed for frequent threesome on high seas. Right person will love the feel of the sea on their skin, enjoy snorkeling in their birthday suit, jet skiing in the buff and island hiking au natural. One hour of housekeeping duties daily include cleaning of the pipes. Please send picture of self, as well as that of your identical buxom twin. Onboard master suite accommodations provided. I'm 37. You should be half that. By the way: There's no yacht.

You're welcome.

Don't Worry. He's Just Sleeping.

There's nothing quite like a part-time college job to keep you focused on getting your degree.

Like numerically filing records at a medical facility for instance (kill me now). Or boxing up cds as an order picker, deep inside the distribution warehouse of a national music retailer. And, of course, there's always the standard babysitting gig. 

With a little Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome thrown in for good measure.

Circa 1991, or junior year, I answered a classified in The Good 5¢ Cigar, the URI campus paper. An English visiting professorial family was in need of occasional child care for their three wee ones. 

I was their Mary Poppins.

Or something like that. 

If Mary got the boot after the first night.

For a while, an 'I Don't Wanna Brush My Teeth' incident, held the distinction as being the most drama of the evening. (Whatever kid. You're British; you should not take healthy choppers for granted.) But even with that mild outburst, I was still relatively in control of the situation.

Until someone decided to say goodnight to the hamsters. 

Let's just say one of them wasn't able to return the greeting.

Okay, so how many times have the beloved pets of complete stranger's children, originally from a foreign land, died on your watch? Right. I don't think there's a manual for this one. Luckily, my instincts kicked in and headed straight to: Epic Lies Grown-Ups Tell Children.

"Don't worry. He's just sleeping."

Yup. A deep eternal never-ending sleep.

Don't judge.

Here's the thing. Children don't believe these lies--even the polite ones with lilting English accents. I could have easily gone with: "Get used to it kid. Everyone dies." Or: "Why in bloody hell do you have so many hamsters in such a small space. This, what looks to me like a simple suffocation incident, could have been easily prevented." 

Because the truth is, whatever came out of my mouth at that point, the outcome would have been the same: Hysterical crying, while they (and I) waited for their parents to return through the front door, followed by an exchange of cash, which was not NEARLY enough to cover my trauma.

And while I didn't receive a second invite to watch these lovelies again, big surprise, sometimes I wonder if they ever reminisce, maybe back across the pond, about their time spent living in Rhode Island. And that fateful night, long ago, when their dear hamster decided to pick the tiniest of three-hour windows, and off itself on that poor, poor babysitter.