Was in my friends car with him and a friend of his who I don’t know that well. The radio in the car was broken so my friend’s friend offered to play some music from his phone. Sure, why not?

The first song he played was a country music cover of Snoop Dogg’s “Gin and Juice”. That was fun. A novelty song, but a good time. As far as rap cover’s with a different take I prefer Dynamite Hack’s cover of Easy E’s “Boyz in da Hood”, but that is besides the point.

Next, some shit went down. He asked us if we like Van Halen. I guess I like them as much as the next guy…Panama rocks. So fine, I’m waiting for some Halen, haven’t heard them in a long time, and then what the fuck? Why Can’t This be Love or some shit, some Sammy Hagar Van Halen bullshit comes on. The man who neutered a group that kinda rocked previously in a somewhat garish David Lee Roth kind of way. I was stunned. I don’t want it to seem like I’m some kind of classic rock purist but I thought the fact that Hagar sucks was as ubiquitous as the notion that Bush is not good at presidenting.

If you prefer the Sammy led Van Halen, a little part of you is dead inside. Too far? I say not far enough.

I can drive 55, Sammy. Obey the registered speed limit or move to a different state curly.

My mother loves the “Wizard of Oz.” She has calendars, figurines, clocks, and tote bags depicting elements of the Frank Baum fantasy. The Scare Crow, Cowardly Lion, and Tin Man are her homies.

When I was home most recently, I was lounging in front of the TV and started looking at her DVD and video selection. There were an older person’s staples like a “Murder She Wrote” boxed set. A Masterpiece Theater mini-series called “A Jewel in the Crown,” about turn of the century Britain. And then there was a set that was a little, um…out of place. It was the second season of “Oz”. That’s right, HBO’s  jailhouse drama featuring lots of beatings and prison sex.

Mom thought Oz simply must have something to do with the Wizard of Oz. Toto and ruby slippers are nowhere to be found in Oz. Mom, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Adorable. I love my mom.

Twice recently I was eating Chinese food with friends and a precocious pre-teen or tween ate all of the fortune cookies prior to the meal. I had to bite my tongue from pointedly reprimanding these little bastards.

If you eat the cookie, the fortunes won’t come true! That’s science. It is ritual. Tradition. You don’t dive into the wedding cake if you need a snack before the ceremony…I’m not sure if the cake would be at the same location as the ceremony, it might be waiting at the banquet hall…but you understand what I’m getting at.

Fortune cookies are not particularly tasty. I would never be at 7-11 and think “hmmm…I want a snack. Yeah, how bout them fortune cookies.” They are a marginally sweet cookie, qualifying as the scantest of desserts.

It is not about the taste. This is decorum. There are just certain things you don’t do. Will you drink all of the beer without pitching in any cash? What kind of monster will you grow up and become? This is indicative of a lack of respect for humanity. Will you become the person that pulls into traffic without waving to car that waited for you? Are you going to zing into parking spaces that others have been waiting patiently for? Will you commit vehicular manslaughter then speed away from the scene of the crime in your ghoulish bloodsoaked murder mobile?

Eat one cookie! That’s all you get. If somebody doesn’t want one, then maybe you get another. That’s it.

I want my fortune. Does it pertain to my life? Is it kismet that this Eastern wisdom on slip of paper has arrived in a cookie shell wrapped in plastic? I need to know if my “ability with numbers will lead to prosperity.” Maybe I need it to be reinforced that I “possess the traits of charm and courtesy.” Perhaps I would benefit by a reminder to “never trouble trouble until trouble troubles me.”

Lousy parenting could be the culprit. Don’t sit by idly as your offspring callously ingests then shits out the only source of spirituality in my life.

I was in Subway today and asked for extra black olives on my six inch turkey on honey oat. The sandwich artist cherry picked about three more black olives and dropped them into my sandwich. What gives? I asked her again saying, “Oh extra please.” Again she carefully dipped into the black olive bucket and snared about four. They are black olives Subway lady, not fucking opals! I stopped it there because any further persistence would have made it a “thing” and turned me into “that black olive guy.”...even though I am the black olive guy.

Their behavior must be a directive from above. Not Subway itself or Jared, but from the owner of this particular franchise, it's happened there before. Almost any other Subway provides me with a heap of extra black olives, an embarrassment of riches! A king’s ransom so rich it would take me back to the times my mother would buy cans of them just for me to enjoy at the kitchen table. I would gobble black olives as if they were delicious Combos pretzel snacks.

Maybe this was karmic payback for the time I stole an olive at the exotic Whole Foods Olive Bar. I’ve also dipped into bulk food bins to snake out some yogurt covered pretzels.

This chintzy way of making a sandwich is not true artistry. It is corporate greed hindering artistic expression. It is Miramax telling Paul Thomas Anderson that his next film can’t be three hours or the record company telling Led Zep to make Stairway 3 minutes. Don’t hinder the artistic expression of the Sandwich Artist…otherwise stop calling them Sandwich Artists and start calling them cogs in your God damned money machine!

What is it? Are we not only in a gas crisis, but in a black olive crisis. Where do black olives come from? The Middle East? Is this blood for black olives? Are black olives what we refer to as black gold? If this were the case I would tighten my belt and suffer with fewer damn olives. I’m a patriot. I’m not gonna go take a bath in black olives. Not planning on feeding black olives to my dog like some sheik in the United Arab Emirates.

I will continue to go to this Subway because it is walking distance from my apartment…but I will go there wary.

Okay, so I was home visiting my parents last week and weighed myself on two different scales. I was shocked to find that I weigh under a 140lbs. Between 135-139. What? Honestly, we are getting into the realm of ideal weights for ladies. Kind of emasculating. Sort makes me feel like a little slip of a thing, a baby animal on wobbly legs.

I do feel like I’m in decent shape…or at least thought I did until I accidentally stumbled upon my manorexia. As it stands, I am a fairly light healthy eater. Now I wonder if need to become a big eater, a little glutton. Must I begin eating at the calorically reprehensible IHOP? Shall I order half the menu and have them lay before me Belgian waffles, pigs in blankets, piles of bacon, sugary crepes, and a glass of whole milk. Shall I choose the toasty, sauce laden Quiznos over the responsible and affordable menu of Subway?

I know that I shouldn’t complain. Some people are struggling on interminable diets. My mom, God love her, has been on a diet since I became capable of conscious thought.

Yet as a grown ass man (emotional maturity notwithstanding) I feel like this weight is borderline pediatric. In boxing terms I would be a lightweight, super lightweight, or junior welterweight if I were in the IBF…but I am teetering into super featherweight territory, which is depressing. Featherweight? That is a weight-based slur. I realize that any actual boxing featherweight or boxer of any weight class, female boxer, or child in a tae kwon do class would cut me to ribbons, so no offense. Wouldn’t mind being a welterweight though, welterweight sounds neat.

For some reason I do list myself as 150lbs. if filling out a form that requires such information. I will continue to do so defiantly.

Fun fact: In high school I weighed about 160lbs. I had more baby fat then and an unformed chest. Back then my nipples were puffier and more “cupcake” like. I have a semblance of pecs now, so don’t even try calling me “cupcake nipples.” Things is, I don’t want any super skinny nicknames either. I vote no on “slim britches,” “Kosher toothpick,” and “Skeletal Fred.”

I feel a little bit like the tragic Tara Reid. Kinda like when she is on the cover of OK Magazine with the caption, “Too thin?”

Oh well, pardon the vanity.