Pole-dancing kit marketed to children

This is one of the reasons people scapegoat marketing departments.

For Better or Forever

I was almost elated today when I read that the 29-year reign of banality by comic strip "For Better or for Worse" would end. In fact, the Washington Post's Hank Stuever perfectly expressed my sentiments as a long-time anti-fan in his piece, "Something for Everyone to Hate."

While it's been more in vogue to direct one's vitriol at "Family Circus," FBOFW has always been the strip that made my skin crawl, the one I encouraged my dog to urinate on, the one for which I used to white-out the dialogue and write in heated debates on the dissolution of the USSR and other pressing issues of the day. "Family Circus" was dismissable, an old curiosity shoppe relic that I could pass by without interest, something I could use as a benchmark to marvel at how far humanity has come since its invention. On the other hand, FBOFW showed me on a weekly basis how boring life would be, how it would center around mundane, joyless labor and kitchen table conversations, how it had no room for passion or imagination. While its characters lumbered through life, aging painfully, their ripening bags and wrinkles the symptoms of their ennui, I was scared shitless that I might ever grow up to be that lonely, or that dull.

So, I was ready to pop champagne, when I read this second story in the Post, "Lynn Johnston's Drawn-Out Adieu to Cartooning." Tease!!! As it turns out, Johnston will not retire, but will instead create new cartoon strips set to the strip's origin in 1979, when the characters were younger, raising toddlers. What do we have to do to let this end? Bill Watterson--where are ye?! Help us in our time of need! So, instead of not ending FBOFW, Johnston has decided to make the strip even duller by revisiting old plot lines. This isn't change I can believe in.

And I'm not above taking a personal jab. Who knew Lynn Johnston looked so much like a young(er) Rue McClanahan? If you're hiking in Canada over Labor Day, it may be helpful for you to be able to distinguish between the two, a skill similar to differentiating a copperhead from its benign cousin, the king snake. Feel free to print this as a reference:

Rue McClanahan: Non-venemous

Lynn Johnston: Deadly

10 Things to Worry About

Science writer John Tierney of the New York Times busts 10 myths of things the media typically use to incite panic in us mere mortals. It's very worthwhile to read the full article, "10 Things to Scratch From Your Worry List," but in brief, they are:

1. Killer hot dogs
2. Your car's planet-destroying A/C
3. Forbidden fruits from afar
4. Carcinogenic cellphones
5. Evil plastic bags
6. Toxic plastic bottles
7. Deadly sharks
8. The Arctic's missing ice
9. The universe's missing mass
10. Unmarked wormholes

The act of debunking myths is one of the greatest forms of comeuppance, and I'm a big fan of its practitioners, from Houdini all the way up to Penn & Teller. In a way, it's the modern academic version of the gentleman duelist--Aaron Burr would be proud. And now that you have 10 less things to worry about, there's plenty of room for my list of 10 things that should definitely make you wet yourself:

10 Things to Add to Your Worry List

1. Being killed in a jet-pack fly-by
2. Crane collapse (for New Yorkers)
3. Rush-hour bridge collapse (for the rest of the U.S.)
4. Coma-inducing ice cream headache (no story here, just my own private worry)
5. Dropping dead during decathalon (for Olympic athletes)
6. Death by pencil (for anyone who has seen The Dark Knight)
7. Christian Bale's filial rage (for Chrisitian Bale's family)
8. Run over by a drunk Shia LeBeouf (for Harrison Ford)
9. Your next job: making novelty flags for China (for Bear Stearns employees)
10. Zombie Estelle Getty (for Rue McClanahan)

Fake your own funeral

Someone in Korea must have read my post on "How to Fake Your Own Death," because in today's Financial Times, Anna Fifield reports a new trend on how people are attending their own "fake" funerals as a way to "value life":

Welcome to the new Korean craze of “well-dying”. In a country infatuated with “well-being” – living and eating healthily, even to the point where tobacco-makers offer vitamin-enriched “well-being cigarettes” – training companies are now offering courses on dying a good death.

“Korea has ranked number one in many bad things such as suicide and divorce and cancer rates, so I wanted to run a programme for people to experience death,” says Ko Min-su, a 40-year-old former insurance agent who founded Korea Life Consulting, which offers fake funerals as a way to make people value life.

The rite is described as follows:

In front of an altar covered with flowers and his funeral portrait, Mr Ko instructs his trainees to choose a coffin, put on a traditional hemp death robe and then read out their wills one-by-one.

Next, it is time to be buried. Participants lie down in their coffins, while a man wearing the outfit of a traditional Korean death messenger places a flower on each person’s chest. Funeral attendants place lids on the coffins, banging each corner several times with a mallet. Dirt is thrown down on the lid, as loud as stones on a tile roof. The attendants leave the hall for five minutes – but it seemed like 30 minutes to those taking part.

Once the lids are lifted, Mr Ko asks the trainees how they felt. “When they were nailing the coffin and sprinkling the dirt, it felt like I was really dead,” Ms Baek says. “I thought death was far away but now that I have experienced it, I feel like I have to live a better life.”

I'm personally torn between thinking this is creepy and beautiful. However, the photo below (in which the participants are very much alive), does make me lean towards creepy. However, I suppose, anything that makes us put a higher value on life may be valuable on its own merits.

How I'm going to save Christmas

Much like the Great Schism that divided Christianity into the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Churches, Jim Carlton of the Wall Street Journal today reports of a divide among the Amalgamated Order of Real-Bearded Santas, one of the most prominent Santa organizations in the country. Carlton reports that the fraternity of Kringles are accusing each other of "profiteering and behaving in un-Santa-like ways." While it's unlike me to say I told you so, I naturally saw this coming. You can't bring together a coalition of large men jockeying for a throne of authority without a little violence, and to prove my point:

Things became physical that month, when a Santa who had been banished from Elf Net tried to crash a board meeting of Amalgamated Santas at Knott's Berry Farm Resort Hotel in Buena Park, Calif. The interloping Santa, Ric Erwin of Laguna Niguel, Calif., says he planned to videotape the private meeting at the request of Santas who couldn't be there. He pushed his way past Mr. Trolli and ended up face-to-face with Mr. Germann near the meeting room filled with Santas. Mr. Erwin says Mr. Germann "used his elbow to bounce me off the wall." Mr. Germann says he didn't touch Mr. Erwin. Mr. Trolli says Mr. Erwin "headed into him like a linebacker." Mr. Erwin was escorted out by security guards.

As the mixed metaphors go: you can't make Christmas without cracking a few eggs. Still, this development has led me to take a bold leap, one that I never thought I'd be inspired to make. Meet the newest member of the Amalgamated Order of Real-Bearded Santas. Sure, I'll need to gain weight and grow a beard, but between late-night Chinese delivery and my usual disregard for personal hygiene, I'm confident I can make the cut by December. While this is just a crude mock-up, this is what I expect I'll look like by the time the holidays roll around:

In part, the move will allow me to take an active role in preserving the Holidays, and salvaging Santa in the court of public opinion. However, my motivation has more to do with--you guessed it--comeuppance. Taking on the role of Santa, even if I'll only be one of thousands of active Santas in the country, will allow me to punish the country's population of naughty. I have six months to brainstorm suitable punishments, and since I'm also "greening" my work, I'll be eliminating coal. My first thoughts involve waterboarding and screenings of the upcoming film, "Beverly Hills Chihuahua," but my methods will evolve between now and the end of the year.

The King of Bling

Jonathan Cheng of the Wall Street Journal profiles a real-life Goldfinger in Hong Kong, Lam Sai-wing, who has built his fortune and lifestyle around a love of gold. This year, when the price of gold shot up to $1,000 an ounce, the latter-day Liberace has been moved to have a sort of golden garage sale, selling items such as a horse-drawn chariot. However, his prize possession, a 24-Karat toilet, will remain at home:

I don't care if gold hits $10,000 an ounce," Mr. Lam says. "I'm not melting it down."

How to fake your own death

If there is a running theme to this blog, it's this: comeuppance. I love comeuppance like a junkie loves junk. Today, Holly Watt from The Washington Post released the sort of story that makes sugar plums dance in my head:

A hedge-fund manager who faked his own suicide and went on the run after being convicted of defrauding investors of millions of dollars turned himself in yesterday at a police station in Massachusetts.

Sure, I've thought about faking my own death--who hasn't? The value of Alex Dolan autographed memorabilia (largely old tax forms) would shoot through the roof. But let's take a closer look at how he "dun it":

His sport-utility vehicle was found June 9 on the Bear Mountain Bridge 150 feet above the Hudson River, about 40 miles north of New York City. The engine was running, and "Suicide is painless," the title of the theme song for the "M.A.S.H." television show, was scratched in the dust on the car's hood.

When Israel's body was not found after a lengthy search, the federal authorities launched a nationwide manhunt.

As much as I love comeuppance, I do have a soft spot for anyone who drops a M.A.S.H. reference in their suicide note. More importantly, this begs the question: how does one correctly fake their own suicide? If a hedge-fund mastermind such as this can't get away with it, what chance do I have?

My best guess follows the steps outlined below. Disclaimer: I'm no CSI or police expert, so use at your own risk:

1. You need a body. Look around--who looks like you? Who might look like you if you glued a fake nose and wig on them? Think outside the box. I'm pretty sure you can use a mannequin if you dress it in your clothing and leave your diver's license in the pocket.
   
2. Your note: short and to the point. No one wants to read a long note--hell, I'm surpsied you made it this far down on my blog. This is one thing our hedge-fund hero had right. Be pithy, and think of your note as a sort of "suicide slogan." Possibilities include: "Can't wait to meet Leona Helmsley" or "The Washington Generals Suck."
   
3. The new you. Face it--you're not Stuart Sugarman, investment banker, anymore. You're Jane Campion, award winning writer and director of "The Piano." Enjoy your Oscar.
   
4. Don't turn yourself in. As much as you'll be tempted to run into a crowded police station and confess, resist the urge. It's much more fun when the police burst in on you.