Bryant Bashing Continues: Even Deion Disses Dez

© David Hartman

     Charlie Sheen has a new best friend. His name is Dez Bryant. Bryant is proving to be Sheen's equal at drawing negative attention to himself, giving the media someone new to pick on for awhile.
     Last week, Bryant got himself banned from a Texas mall and was issued a citation after he was with a group of thugs who refused to pull up their pants in the upscale shopping center. Dez sez he wasn't cited for a clothing violation, but for being verbally abusive and profane to the security officer who asked the group to leave and escorted them from the mall. I guess Barney Fife didn't realize he was dealing with Dez Bryant, an NFL player who can do as he pleases because he's an NFL player.
     Since then, Dez, mall management and Barney have all had a big group hug, and Bryant is now allowed to go back in the mall after all. Of course he can. He's an NFL player. He can do as he pleases. Until that changes, nothing will in that cesspool of a sport.
     But now he might have a hard time getting any of the stores to sell him anything without paying with cash. This week reports surfaced that Dez faces not one, but two civil suits seeking over half a million dollars from Bryant for jewelry and sporting event tickets he hasn't paid for.
     In one instance the NFL rookie ordered $267K in custom jewelry like the hideous piece pictured, and so far has only paid about $21,000 for it. Attempts to collect the outstanding amount have been unsuccessful. Another suit alleges Bryant owes $293K for bling and more than $12,300 for tickets to sporting events  -- all of the stuff charged on credit before he was even drafted by the Dallas Cowboys.
    I know some jewelers who are hoping the NFL and its players get things worked out in time to have a season next year so Bryant has some money to pay up. Half a mil is a nice chunk of that $8 million signing bonus he got from the Cowboys.

Coming soon to a pawn shop
near you.

     Some folks wonder why a jeweler would let Bryant take possession of something that expensive without paying for it first. But it's not all that uncommon among people who are worth a lot of money. I hear story after story of people winning the lottery and walking into a car dealership with their winning ticket before they've even claimed the prize, and driving away in the vehicle of choice without paying a dime up front.
     I guess those businesses know you're going to be good for the debt eventually. Except for when you're not.
     It's gotten so bad for Dez that he's even being criticized by Deion Sanders, a prince of a guy whose picture Deion would have us believe is in Webster's Dictionary next to the phrase "class act." The same "Prime Time" who once assaulted two fans after a minor-league baseball game, and on another occasion failed to run out an infield popup in the major leagues after using his bat to draw a dollar sign in the batters box dirt.
     Hard to decide which is worse: embarrassing your team and league for the right to show your underwear, getting sued for not paying for your jewelry or being dissed by Deion.
     At least Dez can take heart in knowing that trouble don't last always. It's been a good two weeks since Lindsay Lohan has done something really stupid, so she's overdue. Then the media will forget all about him.

...

     You may have noticed a new dinner music voice on Spam On Wry. That's Amy Patterson-Hazzard of Edmond, OK. We go way back. Her dad was my major prof at OC, and I'd walk 10 miles to eat her mom's brisket.
     To keep things fresh, rather than playing the same song for a week, I'll play a different song with each new post, alternating between Roger and Amy. If you have any other artists in mind for the Spam rotation, drop me a suggestion. The artist would have to grant permission for the tracks to be played. Don't need ASCAP spitting in my Spam.
     Other subtle tweaks continue with Spam on Wry as well, with the new visitor counter. The site was created quickly to get the process going. The look will continue to evolve, I suspect. I'm even toying with the idea of a Spam on Wry podcast for the handful of people who might want to listen to Spam on the go. Except I'm not a big fan of my voice, so that's a hard mental hurdle to leap.

Dez Sez Misdemeanor a Bum Rap. A Few More Would Make It a Spankin'

© David Hartman

     Having already touched on underwear in a recent blog post, I'm not really looking to develop a theme here on Spam. But I need to address the Dez Bryant blunder while it's still current news. I'm sure you understand. Oh, and this blog post has been rated PG by the Ridiculously Obscure Blog Reader's Association of America. You've been warned.

     When Alex was three or four years old, he used to love underwear with superheroes on them. Blue and red Supermen, green Spidermen, even Batman and Robin. Pokemon, Digimon -- it's all good on your underwear, mon. If I remember correctly, there may have even been a pair of Bob and Larry's in the mix. Would have been appropriate, because at that time he wasn't good with his "v" sounds yet, so we called the cartoon "Wedgie Tales" anyway.

     If you're gonna have supercool underwear like that, it only makes sense to show it off, right? When you're three or four. While it's still "cute" to do that.

     So I had to cheer the other day when I read that former Oklahoma State/current Dallas Cowboy Dez Bryant was issued a citation at a Dallas mall essentially for refusing to pull up his pants. It's the only time I've ever really cared about anything Dez did. Dez sez it wasn't his pants that were the problem, but his friends'. He was just with them at the time. So he's a victim. Story of his life.

Hope you don't trip over your
drawers, dude.

     Reminds me of another incident from the Oklahoma County courthouse last year. I was there with the Geezer, the preacher and an elder showing moral support for a friend when a stranger approached us thinking the elder was an attorney. This kid, who couldn't have been older than 22, really, really needed a good attorney, for reasons other than he missed his morning court date and just had a bench warrant issued for his arrest.

     He told us the story of his arrest for possession of illegal drugs. Seems that when he came home one day, he took off his pants and went to bed. Later, hearing fighting outside his apartment, he put his pants back on and went to investigate. When the cops came, he was detained and searched along with the troublemakers. They found drugs in the jeans pocket.

C'mon, girls. We're all twins
from behind. No need to prove it.

     But guess what! They weren't his pants! In his haste to dress and join the fracas, he put on someone else's pants by mistake! That's his story, and he was stickin' to it.

     It's an easy oversight to make, if say, you've got a lot of guys in one apartment and none of them are wearing pants. Oh, to be in the courtroom when that cross examination went down. Whatever the state offered, son, I hope you took the deal.

     Anyway, I know that fads come and go, but this whole show-the-world-your-boxers era has been around for way too many moons now. It's time to flush this fashion faux pas.
     It's not just the thrill of showing your shorts that I don't get. It's the function issue. What if you had to run somewhere? How exactly can you run fast from the police when the crotch of your jeans is down at your knees?

     But if guys can't seem to wear the pants anymore, girls are just as bad with the low-rise jeans. I don't get that, either. Don't these girls have mommies to kinda sorta notice and correct these issues? Some things are better left to the imagination. This is one of them.

     Even bellbottoms and big hair were better than this.

Victoria's Got It. Robert? Not So Much.

© David Hartman

     File this under the category "Folks who are way too excited about their jobs." Got this voicemail awhile back, and have been waiting for a chance to share it. Can't post an audio link on Facebook, at least not easily, but I guess it can be shared here at Spam. To better hear the audio, you might need to turn off the dinner music, unless you wait until the music is done singing to click the link.
     To turn off the music, scroll all the way down the page, past the fine print. You'll see the music widget there, and you can hit the pause button to silence it.
     I'm thinking the Be The Match Registry needs to hire some phone skills coaches to work with their reps. Might increase their return call rate.
     Someone like Dick Vitale, maybe. "Okay, Hartmaaan.....you're in the NBA of DNA, baby! A DNA dandy! Prime-time pumper! It's Marrow Madness! Answer the bell baaaabyyyy, it's stem-cell city!"

Eartha Kitt

     Or maybe they could channel their inner Eartha Kitt, and do it  "Santa Baby" style. They could even lay the soundtrack behind the message:
     "David, baby, please call and take our phone kuh-weery
     For me
     Want your answers real bad
     David baby, so call me on the toll-free tonight...."

     Anything but this Robert guy. I still haven't returned the call. I'm waiting for a time when I'm super depressed, so I can sound as excited when I talk as Robert does.

...

Dickie V.

     There's a new woman in my life, for those of you curious about such things. Her name is Victoria, and she's cheaper than a happy meal. I still love Grace, and may revisit her from time to time on the sly. Men are pigs like that. But Victoria is just so.......sexy. And she's something new. I was getting bored with Grace.
     Victoria is the new synthesized voice of my Android phone. She speaks with a British accent, which let's face it, is far more seductive than Grace's bland American tone.
     There's something about hearing Victoria tell me in the mother tongue to turn right in 300 feet at N.E. 136th Street/East Memorial Road that just....sends shivers down the spine. As you can see, I'm easily amused.
     The neat thing about Victoria is that I can also adjust her pitch and speed. Right now, her voice is just a hair too deep, but I'll play with her and get her exactly like I want her. In addition to giving me driving directions, Victoria can read aloud my texts and e-mails in the car so I can keep my mind on my driving, my hands on the wheel and my snoopy eyes on the road ahead. She's not just a companion, she's a potential life saver. And just $2.99 in the Android Market. Can't beat that.

Monday Special: Spam Nuggets, Breaded and Fried

© David Hartman

     One of the neat things about worship service for me is the scripture reading. There's a difference between reading it yourself and hearing it read. Often a voice inflection or something will trigger me to think in a different light about a passage I've read a hundred times on my own.

     That happened again yesterday during the reading from Matthew. Jesus has finished the Sermon on the Mount, and he and the apostles get on the boat to get away from the crowds. Jesus sleeps. The storms come. The apostles panic and wake him up to save them from becoming fish food.

     Then Jesus asks them why they were afraid, and where was their faith? Kind of an odd question to ask given the circumstances, don't you think? I would have been afraid, too. Where was my faith? My faith was in the guy who I believed could save me. That's why I woke him up. Duh.
     But maybe it wasn't so much a rebuke or a questioning of their faith that Jesus had intended. Maybe it was a challenge to them to start becoming what they were really meant to be in this new kingdom he was establishing.
     Later in the gospel story, we read how the apostles performed miracles on their own -- certainly after receiving the Holy Spirit post ascension, but even before that when Jesus sends them out to preach and heal and then report back to him. There's no Holy Spirit mojo going on in them at this point, just instructions from Jesus on what to do and how to do it. If the Matthew story is linear, the limited commission occurs shortly after the rocking boat.
     Maybe the question is Jesus' way of letting them know they could have done for themselves what they woke him up to do for them. He's getting them ready for what they're going to do themselves in short order. All they had to do was believe that the power was real and in them.
     Maybe not. It's just a thought, albeit one that hadn't crossed my mind until yesterday. Still, I wonder how many crises in life we add to or don't solve at all while we're waiting around for Jesus to take care of it because we think that's the way it's supposed to work. If Jesus is truly in us, maybe the whole point is that he wants us to handle some of this stuff ourselves without sitting on our hands waiting for him or someone else to work the miracle.

...

     A recent Facebook status from old college friend Billy Willis: "OK, so I saw this question posed the other day and I thought I would see how my Facebook friends would answer. Who would you want to walk 1,000 miles with and why? The person can be living, dead, or imaginary."
     Without thinking too hard, I can come up with three names pretty quick.
     One would be Mike Royko, the most gifted writer I've ever read. Oh, the things he could teach me about telling stories over the course of 1,000 miles.
     Another would be Garrison Keillor. I'd bore him, but he'd never bore me.
     The third would be Alison Krauss. She could sing to me to help pass the time. A thousand miles later, I still wouldn't be sick of her voice. And somewhere along the 1,000 miles she's bound to get all hot and sweaty. That would just be a bonus.

...

     The latest Facebook scam or virus or whatever apparently is disguised as a link to a video titled "When Panties Go Bad!" The thumbnail pic is of some thong-clad girl's behind.
     It's to the point now where I just don't click multimedia links on Facebook at all anymore. But I knew this one was a fake when it was recommended to me by the wife of a longtime elder at the Memorial Road Church of Christ. This is a woman I used to work with at OC. A woman who once scolded me for wearing a Ralph Marlin "Mona Lisa" tie on campus because in the famous painting, Mona's not wearing a turtleneck sweater. So I'm fairly sure this elder's wife is not asking me to watch any video with the word "panties" in the title.
     Anyway, I don't need to see a video of what happens when good underwear goes bad. In my house, when good underwear goes bad, you turn 'em inside out and give 'em another week or two. And then you go wash them at the public laundromat.
     You're welcome for the visual, Kenna :)

Is Wal-Mart Ruining Our Economy By Not Hiring Checkers?

© David Hartman

     A friend of mine has on a couple of occasions urged me in Facebook statii to not use the self check-out lanes at Wal-Mart because those lanes take away jobs from people who need jobs. She and I agree on a lot of things, but not this.
     At Wal-Mart and most other large corporations, a checker job is a part-time, minimum-wage job. They're not full-time jobs because the companies don't want the added investment in benefits that full-time jobs require.
     I don't know about where you live, but in my town, I can drive in any direction and in about 30 minutes collect applications from at least half a dozen fast food restaurants or businesses that are looking to hire folks willing to work part time for minimum wage. There's no shortage of those jobs. There's a shortage of those employees.
     One of the reasons I try to stay out of political and social debates is because of stereotyping. And one of my biggest pet peeve stereotypes is that everyone in America who is on public assistance is too lazy to work and would rather just milk the system and watch Maury on TV all day rather than get a job.
     In some cases, I'm sure that's true. But in a good number of cases, that's hogwash. If you're a single parent trying to provide for a child or children, a part-time, minimum-wage job does you no good, especially if you have to pay for child care. You work 30 hours a week at $7.25. That's $217.50 gross a week. Take out, say, 20 percent for taxes, and you're taking home $174 a week. I challenge you to find any reputable daycare anywhere that will watch your kids while you work those 30 hours for less than $100 or $150 a week. So what do you have to show for your 30 hours at Wal-Mart? $25-$75 a week. Try paying rent, utilities and food on that.
     Option B is to stay unemployed, get that $217.50 a week from the government and have all of that money to try to support your family, rather than giving 80 percent of it to someone for babysitting. At least now you have a fighting chance. Not a good chance, but a fighting chance. For some people, it's not always about taking the easy way. It's about doing the best they can with the options given them. Too often that gets overlooked in the partisan rhetoric.
     In the current system, you can work and still need public assistance. America doesn't need more jobs, it needs better jobs.
     It's also misguided to assume that if I don't use the self checkout at Wal-Mart, they will be forced to hire more clerks to accommodate longer lines. I've had way too many shopping experiences at Wal-Mart where I'm standing in a line 10 customers deep because only three of 15 lanes are open. There are other Wal-Mart employees meandering about the store doing other things -- stocking shelves, whatever -- but no one is yelling over the loudspeaker for those folks to hightail it up to the front and help get people on their way.
     I think retailers have calculated exactly how much money they're willing to spend on check-out staff. It's built into the business model. Hiring enough clerks so that no check-out line ever gets more than three deep in customers would cut too deeply into the profit margin. So the customer waits in line, however long that takes.
     Unless they use the self-check lanes, which don't cost Wal-Mart as much and get customers on their way much faster. And I'm all for that. After all, the sooner I get out of Wal-Mart, the more time I have to spend waiting in the line at McDonalds for my "fast" food nugget meal because the restaurant only has one cook during the lunch rush.
     Why? Because no one is filling that 25 hour a week minimum wage cook job that they've advertised for months. If they've got anyone else to support but themselves, they can't afford to.

...

     One of my high school homegirls and Facebook friend Barb Sloey is for the second time experiencing the joys of having a child who is 15 1/2. That means driver's permit, and all that goes along with it.
     I feel Barb's pain, even though I don't have any teenage kids. I do have a 77-year-old mother who hasn't driven 250 miles in the last decade. But now she wants to try again. Even with the right hand that still has substantial nerve damage secondary to a broken arm suffered almost a year ago.
     So when I'm done submitting this post, we're going to go up to the college, and I'm going to let her get behind the wheel of my fairly new-to-me car -- the one that has liability only and about 17 more payments to go. If you see me at church tonight, you'll know the Geezer didn't kill us. If we're not there, dispatch fire and EMSA to OC. We'll probably be on the north side of the campus.

...

     I rarely get comments on the blog itself, but I've gotten feedback from several that I appear too uncaring toward the situation in Japan in my previous rant about Americans bankrolling cleanup efforts for national disasters in other countries.
     So let me clarify.
     I am opposed to the U.S. Government sending tax money to other countries to help after disasters. And tax money is the only kind of money the federal government can send, since it's the only way they make money to begin with.
     I am not opposed to, and in fact encourage, Christian or otherwise generally benevolent Americans donating money from their own coffers for relief efforts in Japan. Churches want to take up contributions? No problem. Wanna give money to the Red Cross earmarked for Japan relief? God bless you. But if we're going to help, we need to help as Christians, not as Americans.
     The Japanese economy is one of the wealthiest and most stable in the world. If you disagree, explain to me how so many of the banks, credit companies and other major corporations in America that used to be owned by Americans are now owned by the Japanese? If we were talking Bangladesh, it might be another matter. But the Japanese government has the resources to handle this. Let them handle it.

Coupon Anxiety: Is It Really Worth It?

© David Hartman

     I coupon like a boy. I know this. I really want to learn to coupon like a girl, but the process seems overwhelming and the bargains underwhelming.

     And it doesn't help that I've been burned by couponing before. Like last week, when the Geezer and I "cashed in" on a BOGO lunch entree deal at TGI Fridays. The catch is you have to pay for an entree and two drinks. Two drinks at $2.59 a pop. Two fifty-nine! For the price of one dine-in drink, I could buy a sixer and have change left over. And if you want sweet potato fries instead of the nasty white potato fries, that's $1 extra -- each.

     By the time we were done, I spent as much with one of us eating "free" as I would have spent for both of us to eat full price at Swadleys. And we'da gotten more food at Swadleys, free soft serve for dessert and better, blonder waitresses.

     But I saw the banner on the Sunday paper saying there were $332 worth of coupons inside, so I violated everything I stand for and actually paid money for a Daily Oklahoman, the newspaper that fired me awhile back.

     Lots of good stuff in there, if I needed canned tea, wax paper or mascara. But I don't. I did see a coupon for a free stick of deodorant when I buy one, and one for $1.25 worth of free spaghetti when I buy two jars of Ragu. I definitely eat spaghetti. I sometimes use deodorant. I'm still not sure sacrificing my principles was worth a stick of Right Guard and some angel hair pasta, though.

     I know there's an art to it. You gotta use a coupon when something is already on sale, so you get two discounts at a time. That takes some research. The local coupon queens at my church get together now and then to learn tricks and trade coupons, etc. I've been invited to attend. Maybe I should go. 

     But I know I'd be the only guy there, and I wouldn't want to stifle the girl talk. There's only so much "do these jeans make me look fat?" and "I was just walking by and I saw these pumps in the window and I thought 'ohmigosh, those would be perfect with my mustard-colored scarf'" and "well, when I was pregnant with (insert child's name).....yada yada yada" a guy can take.

     Anyway, if anyone needs coupons from Sunday's paper, hit me up. Someone may as well use them. Oh, and if you really have to ask, then yes, the jeans probably do make you look fat. :)

...

      I don't want to rant here, but I get more and more disturbed every time I hear on the news that the United States is pledging millions and billions of dollars in aid to some foreign country that just had a natural disaster. This time it's Japan. The same country that already owns about half of the United States as is. 

     Here's an idea: rather than just giving them more of our money because we're nice guys, how about we give them the chance to sell us our country back for the price they paid for it. Then they can use that money to clean up the mess and take care of their folks.

     Look, I've got nothing against Japan per se, other than that whole Pearl Harbor thing. But America has got to break its habit of bankrolling every other nation's natural disasters. It would be one thing if other nations came running with equal generosity to help us whenever a hurricane wipes out a major city or an oil rig leaks and destroys the livelihood of thousands of Americans along our coasts. You just don't hear much about that happening, though, do you? Not nearly to the extent that we spend on other nations when they need a hand.

     I'm a Democrat. I'm all about helping my own poor. Some think we spend too much for public aid to the needy in the U.S. I'm not convinced we spend enough. But we don't enforce immigration laws, so we spend billions each year supporting people inside our borders who aren't even U.S. citizens. That has to stop. You want to benefit from the system, Option A is to become a citizen and pay into the system like everyone else. Option B is to go back where you came from. There is no Option C.

     We've also got to get out of the mindset that it's our responsibility to free other nations from their oppressive governments. Those folks need to fight their own wars and get their independence for themselves. Just like we did.

     Makes you wonder how much better off we'd be as a country if we just minded our own business.

Remembering Alan Day and Don Vinzant

© David Hartman

     Years ago, a reporter for a dying newspaper in a thriving Oklahoma suburb convinced his managing editor to begin a regular religion section in the paper, covering news and events relevant to members of the community's dozens of churches.

     That's how I met Alan Day, pastor of Edmond's First Baptist Church. As I shared with local pastors and ministers the paper's plans for expanded coverage of religious topics and local church events, many were skeptical or confused. Why would a newspaper that never really cared before about their activities if it didn't involve buying an advertisement start to care now? I understood the skepticism. But a good number of local church leaders were enthusiastic about the change, and Day was among my biggest and earliest cheerleaders in that effort.     

     In the year plus that would follow before I left that newspaper, Day regularly offered encouragement and story ideas. I launched a "read-through-the-Bible-in-a-year" campaign as part of the paper's religious coverage. I asked the local clergy to contribute to a weekly column on Fridays, offering something from the week's scheduled readings that made the Bible relevant to our lives today. Alan was one of the backbones of that weekly column, taking his regular turn in the rotation, as well as occasionally penning something on short notice when another minister forgot his turn. And his material never disappointed.

Alan Day

     Alan and his wife invited me one evening for the church's Wednesday evening meal and Bible class, and were gracious hosts. I was impressed by Alan's teaching ability, and he took the time to introduce me to as many people as he could while I was there. Everyone I came in contact with at that congregation was warm and friendly. Based on their welcome, it's easy to see why they are a large, growing church. I know the folks on staff at Edmond's First Baptist are good-to-the-core in their own right, but I guess I always attributed much of that general culture to Alan's leadership there.

     So I was saddened a couple of weeks ago to learn that Alan died suddenly in a motorcycle accident, leaving behind a wife, children, grandchildren and literally multitudes of lives he touched through his ministry. My community lost a giant that day.

     Edmond lost an equal spiritual giant Thursday with the passing of Don Vinzant, the longtime minister at the Edmond Church of Christ, just up the street on Bryant from where Day ministered for more than two decades. Vinzant died after a brief illness.

     I knew Don better than I knew Alan, primarily because we both worked at Oklahoma Christian University for a number of years. I was always drawn to Don's genuine, warm personality. Though I've been away from OC for a number of years, I'd still bump into Don occasionally on campus, or at Panera Bread across the street from the church.

     Don would always take the time for a visit. Our favorite topic of conversation was Bobby and Tamie Ross. Don knew that Bobby and I were close friends since our days as students at OC together. Don would gush about the Rosses to the extent that I often wondered if we were talking about the same Bobby and Tamie Ross. But there was never any doubt how much Don cherished and loved them.

Don Vinzant

     Recently, our conversation topics also would include Jeremie Beller, my preacher at Wilshire. Jeremie is a former student of Don's and another man Don loved. He would always tell me how impressed he was by how well-read Jeremie is for a man of his age, and how Jeremie seems genuinely interested in study and growth.

     I never really minded talking about the Rosses with Don, but talking Beller with him always made me nervous. When a leader of a larger, deeper-pocketed congregation than your own brags on your preacher like that, you're dumb not to be concerned. I always told Don it was fine to admire Jeremie. From afar.

     But it's not the Panera visits with Don that I will remember most about him. It's the times I would bump into Don in one of the hospitals. On two occasions, once when my dad was hospitalized and another when mom was a patient, I ran into Don in the hospital hall. He asked why I was there, and when he found out I was visiting a sick parent, took the time to invite himself into their room for encouragement and prayer. He came to see someone else, but always had time for the parents of Bobby's friend. I often wondered if Don was doing it for Bobby's sake, for my sake, or for the sick parent's sake. The answer, of course, is none of the above. Don did it for his master's sake, following the example the master set.

     I read about how precious the death of saints is to God. I read about mansions and robes and crowns. Up there. Where God has plenty of men and women like Alan and Don. It just doesn't seem like there are nearly enough of them down here, where we need them.

     When it's my turn, I'll see them again on the other side. Until then, they'll be missed. My community is poorer for losing them too soon.

Sex sells.....salt?

© Saint David Hartman

     It's not often you get relationship advice from a stranger at the mall. But Daria was a piece of work Monday night. And I must say, her advice sounds pretty solid.
     After spending a good five minutes washing my hands with Dead Sea salt and buffing my thumbnail, Daria asked me if I was married. I told the truth. "Do you have a girlfriend?" was the follow-up. I lied, but only because I knew where this was going. I walked this road about a month ago with another sales girl at the Dead Sea Premier Cosmetics kiosk at Quail Springs Mall. When they see you coming, they're relentless.
     "Do you know how to tell if she's a good girlfriend?" Daria asked in her flirty voice, her bright wide smile mere inches from my face. I'm pretty sure she still has her tonsils-- she was that close. And that's way too close for a first sales date. At least she hadn't eaten onions for supper.
     There were so many ways this could go, and this was a ride I wasn't going to miss.
     "Umm, no. Do tell. How can I know if she's a good girlfriend?" I asked, trying to act like she was about to give me some important, make-or-break relationship insight.
     "When you come home from a hard day at work, soak your feet for about 15 minutes in warm water," Daria explained. "Then you ask your girlfriend to rub your feet with this salt. If she will do it, she's a good girlfriend.

The $70 salt.

     "But if she won't, you need to move on quick," she warned, clinging to my soft, smooth hand, freshly washed in Dead Sea salt.
     "You're lucky to have a girlfriend, David," she said. "I'm still looking for the right man," she winked.
     Oh please. Now she's creeping me out. And she won't ....let...go.....of my hand. I was ready to move on to the next phase.
     I knew the next phase, because I've done this before. Now we were going to negotiate the price for the happiness this magic salt would bring.
     She turned my palm up. Wouldn't turn it loose, mind you, but turned it up so she could place a jar of the magic salt in my hand. In the rental car business, we call that "assuming the sale." Inside the jar was one full year of salt treatments, she assured. I looked at the jar. There couldn't have been three-quarters of a cup of salt in this jar -- none of it from the Dead Sea I'm guessing -- and you'd be lucky to get 60 days out of it.
      She was going to make it mine for just $69.99. I smiled, stifling a laugh. I was able to stifle this time because I knew the starting price already. The first time, I couldn't stifle.
     But wait......there's more. Back up a minute. After the salt wash, she had me rub some "body butter" into my hands. I'm thinkin' it's the same stuff you get at Wal-Mart for $5 a bottle. You know, cocoa butter or shea butter or whatever they call it. But this was Dead Sea body butter, and it was mine for just $59.99. What a deal.

The $60 body butter

     On this stop at the kiosk, Daria did something the first girl didn't. Well, besides putting all of her business way up in my business in the middle of the mall. She also buffed my right thumbnail with some kind of bar. Made it all shiny. Promised me the nail would stay shiny for two weeks. One shiny nail. Just what I need. For the next two weeks I can walk up to people, hold out my hands and say "which of these nails is not like the others?" Maybe we'll sing the Sesame Street song together.
     Because it was my lucky day, I'd get the nail buffer bar, a cheap pair of clippers and some kind of cuticle thingy I wouldn't have a clue what to do with -- three years worth of shiny nails -- for just $59.99.
     She took out a calculator, violated my personal space again, and stroked the keys. 7, 0 + 6, 0 + 6, 0 = $190.
     "I don't think I can afford that," I said, knowing I wouldn't have to. Daria explained she had a long day. I could tell. Looked like she overslept and got dressed in a hurry, because there were a couple of shirt buttons she missed. I was gonna be a gentleman and point that out. But I'd already given myself over to lying, what's the harm in a little leering, too?
     She needed to make a sale. So for me, she'd sell me the salt for $50, the butter for $50 and give me the nail set. She pulled out the calculator again, showing me how she was willing to slice $90 off the price for nothing more than an "I can't afford it." To drive the point home, we divided $100 by 12. That's just eight bucks and change a month. Divide that by four. Just two bucks a week.
     "Well, maybe I'll come back and see you on payday," I lied, for the second time in five minutes. The preacher is right. Lying does get easier the more you do it. That's dangerous.
     She tried the three-for-two. Now I knew it was time for the two-for-one. She put the nail kit away. "For you, David, I'll sell you the salt for $59 and you can have the body butter for free."

The camera doesn't do it justice.
It really is shiny.

    I didn't immediately answer. I wanted to see what was next.
    "Your girlfriend, David. Do you spoil her?" I wasn't expecting her to revisit the fictional girlfriend, and it took me a moment to remember I had one.
     I nodded.
     "It's a great present for her. You can do something really special for her. You can rub it all over," she said.
     Oh boy.
     "Y-you m-m-mean all over her h-hands, right?" I stammered, playing innocent.
     She laughed. "No, David. You can rub it all...over. Give her a massage. It's a great natural healer for the whole body."
     I'm pretty sure I turned red. I'm certain I felt sadness and relief, all in one tangled emotion. I don't have the greatest job in the world, and sometimes I let that mess with my self-esteem. But at least I'm not talking dirty to middle-aged guys in a busy mall for minimum wage plus commission. I knew it was just about time to bring our little spa tease to a close.
    "You can afford this, David," she assured me. Then she stepped back, eying me from head to toe. "You look like you're worth a million bucks."
     Lying's not only habit-forming, it's contagious.
     I mean look at me. No, seriously. Scroll up and look at me.  I was no prize 25 years and 70 pounds ago, and the decades haven't exactly been my friend. I'm standing there in a t-shirt, cheap faded jeans and $15 Wal-Mart sneakers that have holes in both big toes, and she's trying to make me feel like a movie star.
     And it worked. For a moment, I did feel kind of like Chevy Chase in Vacation. You know, the part where he's trying to convince Christie Brinkley that he's the owner of a hotel chain and that Beverly D'Angelo, the kids and the Queen Family Truckster are all just a disguise. Maybe she was right. I'm tired of pretending I'm not Donald freaking Trump from Mars.
     This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy.
     "You can have the salt for $29," she conceded.
     "I can't today," I answered, agreeing to take her business card and revisit her on payday. Technically I didn't lie, because I didn't say which payday.
     Accepting defeat, she let go of my hand and got out of my face, but handed me her card. I showed her the prominent spot in my wallet where I put it. A place where I won't forget.
     And I won't forget. Because now I wanna see just how cheaply I can get it. The salt I mean. Maybe I'll go back tomorrow night and see if I can talk her down to $19.99.
     Of course, she is single. That's what she said. She'd never lie to me, I'm sure, except for that million bucks nonsense. So maybe I'll go back tomorrow and make her a deal. I'll take the salt for $30, then after work, we'll go back to her place so I can soak my feet awhile. Then I'll hand her the salt and see if she passes the 'good girlfriend' test.
     If she rubs my feet, then something tells me I'm into something good. If not, I'll just take her advice, dump her like a dishrag and return the salt to a different kiosk in a different mall.
     If I act like I lost my receipt, maybe I'll get full price back for it. It's only fair.

Saving Time in the Daylight. Or in the Dark Night.

© Saint David Hartman

     Daylight Savings Time means we spring forward next week.
     I've been thinking about the whole time saving concept in conjunction with Daylight Savings Time, and remembered something I read online years ago from a website offering practical tips on saving your valuable time. I don't remember the website, but what I'm about to share with you was the only time-saving tip there worth remembering, anyway.
     The tip is on how to take off your shirt faster, and it can easily save 1-2 seconds every time time you take off a shirt. Since I started employing this method years ago, I've probably saved 3-5 minutes of my valuable time. It's a wonder I ever managed to undress without it. But it's not just the time saved. Through the years I've probably saved gallons of water by stepping into a running shower a couple of second faster every morning. So it's environmentally friendly as well.
     One caveat though....this seems to work best with t-shirts or stretchy shirts. I wouldn't try it with a dress shirt or something that had a lot of buttons. I know, I know....some of you are just naturally curious and will want to learn from your own mistakes rather than learning from Saint Hartman's, so do what you gotta do. Just don't say I didn't warn ya if something bad happens.
     Using the wonderful technology of the HTC EVO's dual cameras, I'll show you how to go from zero to shirtless in no more than a second, after you get the hang of it. If you have a weak stomach, a couple of the images might scare you shirtless too, but it's a risk I'm willing to take here at Spam on Wry to make your lives more time efficient.
     So much easier than raising the shirt up from the bottom. Start at the top and let gravity work for ya.
     Remember, at Spam on Wry, we love reader feedback, so please feel free to share other important time-saving tips you've come across!

1. Reach behind your back
and grab the shirt from the
collar. Hold your thumb
against the tag for a good
grip.

2. From the back, pull the
collar straight over your head
until the tail of the shirt
is over your head as well.

3. Keep pullin' till the
shirt slides off the
shoulders...

4. Then straight down
the arms. Done!

Anticipating Saint Hartman's Day: How Will YOU Celebrate?

© Saint David Hartman

     I'm a saint. No, really.
     For years I've thought about it, even aloud and publicly in forums like Facebook. 
     It was time to either move or get off the canon.
     So Thursday I became Saint David. Or Saint Hartman. I think I like the second one better. There's probably a Saint David already. Probably not a Saint Hartman. I like to be unique.
     For a nominal fee, I purchased my sainthood through the Universal Life Church, in which I've been a reverend for more than a decade. 
     To become a reverend, I had to provide my name and a valid e-mail address. Wanna be a reverend? Check out the church's website. Tell 'em Saint Hartman sent ya.
     Though I don't yet have my official document suitable for framing, I was assured my sainthood was effective the day I submitted payment. The certificate will come soon enough, but not until the official scribe at the monastery scribbles it out. Sounds impressive, doesn't it?
     I know what some of you are thinking. Hartman's gone mad. How could he abandon his conservative Christian upbringing to do something like this? He's hellbound.
     Well hold your horses. Before I even became a reverend in the ULC years ago, I researched the organization to see if I lined up with their tenets. Religiously, they're harmless. It's okay for me to believe whatever I want about religion under the umbrella of the Universal Life Church, so long as I respect your right to believe whatever you want under the same umbrella.
     I'm fine with that. To be clear, I'm not required to concede that anything you believe necessarily is a path that leadeth unto eternal salvation. All I have to do is respect your right to walk your own path. I do that anyway. If I'm gonna live and let live, why not be a saint in the process?
     But why saint, when for the same nominal fee, I could have been a Cardinal, Friar or Lama? Peace Counselor, Swami or Very Esteemed? I could have even been a Pope. Not the Pope, I presume, but a Pope nonetheless.
     I chose saint as much for you as for me. Every saint worth knowing has his or her own day. If you're a really special saint, you day is recognized by whoever recognizes those things, and your day becomes a national holiday. Pretty soon folks are getting paid to take the day off to celebrate you.
     If I can give my friends one more holiday to celebrate, why wouldn't I? I can't promise your employer will give you the day off on St. Hartman's Day. Yet. That national holiday process is slow to develop. But there's no time like the present to get the ball rolling. As one of my colleagues, the Rev. Jesse Jackson, would say, "if not me, who? If not now, when?" By the end of this decade, my goal is to have St. Hartman's Day celebrated by tens of people worldwide. 
     Saint Hartman's Day officially will be celebrated on Dec. 21. It's my birthday, so it makes sense. I have mixed feelings about celebrating that day. Sadly, Dec. 21 is the shortest day of the year, and I don't want anyone feeling like they're getting less bang for their St. Hartman's Day buck. On the other hand, it's close to Christmas, another national holiday where you get the day off. Perhaps by proximity to Christmas, it'll be easier to convince the boss to cut you loose for the day. Plant the seed now. What can it hurt?
     On the left side of the blog, you'll see the official countdown widget to St. Hartman's Day 2011. You can even indicate if you plan to join the celebration. Feel free to leave a comment telling how you plan to celebrate the special day as well.
     Enjoy!

Court Sides with Westboro: It's the Right Call

© David Hartman

     The United States Supreme Court amazed me yet again.
     Earlier this week, they overturned a lower court ruling giving millions to the family of a dead marine after members of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas picketed the marine's funeral with their hate rhetoric that God hates homosexuals and America.
     The court ruled 8-1 that the protestors had the right to protest after all.
     I'm not surprised by ruling. I'm surprised there was a dissenting vote. Someone needs to refamiliarize Justice Samuel Alito with the First Amendment. If ever a slam dunk was thrown in the lap of the high court, this was it.
     Look, I don't like the Westboro Baptists any more than the next guy. It's just fair to say I probably dislike them less than most. Stick with me a minute before you start firing off the hateful comments and e-mails.
     If you're unfamiliar with the Westboro Baptists, it's a small church headed by a guy named Fred Phelps. Fred has a lot of kids. His kids have a lot of kids. The family tree comprises the lion's share of the Westboro membership. No mainstream Baptist group that I'm aware of claims fellowship with them.
     In a nutshell, their mission in life is to warn Americans that God hates them because America has given itself over to homosexuality. God will surely destroy America for this and damn us all to Hell. Phelps rails against some other sins as well, but his pet sin is homosexuality.
     To spread their message, the family protests high-profile events throughout the country, most often funerals of dead American soldiers. There, they wave their anti-American, anti-homosexuality signs on the streetcorners and shout their message to cars passing by.
     If you wonder why they picket funerals of dead soldiers, their reasoning is simple: not only does God hate fags, he hates anyone who enables fags. The group takes guilt by association to extremes. If you fight to protect America -- a nation given over to homosexuality -- you're as damned as the homosexual himself. Presumably, if you so much as pledge allegiance to the United States, you're an enabler, and therefore damned.
     There's no Jesus in their message. No forgiveness, no love. Just Hell.
     One of Phelps' daughters, Shirley Phelps-Roper, serves as the spokeswoman for the church. Back in my reporter days, I had an opportunity to spend about 30 minutes on the phone with Shirley before they were to protest a military funeral in my town. At the funeral protest itself, I spoke with her again, this time among a group of reporters who covered the protest in a makeshift streetcorner press conference.
     The Westboro Baptists don't see saving the United States from hell as their mission. Theirs is not to worry if or how you come to salvation. Their goal is simply to warn you of what they believe is coming. Think of them more as John the Baptist types, not Jesus types, and you'll understand them better.
     Their method of spreading their message is offensive, but effective. Every funeral they picket, they make news. People talk about them.  Municipalities adopt new ordinances to prohibit them from being near funerals. Police arrest them.
     But the Phelps family is legal smart. Most of the adults in the family are lawyers, so they get all their representation pro bono. And they usually win, simply because no matter how offensive people find the message, sharing their message isn't illegal. And for that matter, it shouldn't be.
     Let's be clear. They offend me. I don't believe their extreme "guilt by association" theology is Biblical. I don't believe Jesus teaches us to confront people with their sin without offering a message of hope and salvation. God hates sin; he loves sinners. He made them. He wants them to be reconciled. Jesus said if you're not with me in that reconciliation project, you're against me. Since the Westboro group isn't trying to save souls, I'm pretty confident I know where they stand with Jesus.
     It's just that I've long ago gotten past letting Fred Phelps and his kids upset me. My God is bigger than Fred Phelps; He'll deal with Fred.
     But in a contemporary religious climate where anything goes, I have to admit I find it a bit refreshing that someone out there is willing to call a sin a sin and declare the consequences of sin without caring who they offend in the process.
     In that streetcorner press conference with Phelps-Roper, one of the reporters confronted her with the story of Jesus forgiving the woman caught in adultry.
     "Yes, he did," Phelps-Roper replied. "But when he had forgiven her, he didn't tell her to go march in some adulterer's pride parade, did he?"
  
     On that point, Phelps-Roper nails it, and raises a problem much larger and more dangerous in the kingdom than the Westboro Baptists pose themselves.
     On the opposite end of the Westboro spectrum are the hundreds of "churches" who adopt a "come as you are, stay as you are" theology that refuses to confront any sin at all.
     Jesus was all about "come as you are." He was never about "stay as you are."
     It just saddens me that well-meaning Christians get so worked up about the Westboro Baptists -- a church that isn't growing, by the way -- but don't seem nearly as concerned about the churches that draw football-sized crowds every Sunday to tell people it's okay to live however they want. That God loves everyone and God will let no one perish because he loves them is more polite, yet far more harmful and deceptive kingdom rhetoric than "God hates fags."
     The power of the cross to save is directly proportionate to the power of sin to condemn. No more, no less. If sin doesn't destroy, then no cross necessary.
     It's a message we need to hear more often.

Delayed Gratification: Where's My (Coke) Reward?

© David Hartman

     Monday was a big day for me. Sorta.

     It's the day I surpassed 4,000 points in my My Coke Rewards account. As I type, I'm at 4,177 points, with probably another 150 points waiting to be deposited in the account in the coming weeks.

     I haven't been saving points for anything specific, though I've been hoping that Coke will partner with Best Buy again so I can convert points into a Best Buy gift card. For 4,000 points, I'd get enough Best Buy cash to take a nice chunk out of my next cell phone upgrade.

     That's probably what I'll hold out for, until I get tired of  holding out, or until I really need a phone upgrade regardless. But I checked the Coke Rewards catalog today to see if there was anything to tempt me to cash in now. Here are some examples of what I found:

     I can have a $50 Nike gift card for 2,000 points, so I assume I could get $100 worth of Nike for 4K points. The only trouble with that is it's been a long, long time since I've dropped a Franklin on shoes. It'll be a longer time before I do it again. So it doesn't strike me as a good use of points.

     Also in that 2,000-point category are the lovely white Ultra Spa Terry Velour Robes. One-size-fits-all and unisex. In other words, cheap. Probably a thread count of about 30. Again, for 4,000 points I could get his-and-hers matching robes. Except there ain't no her, and if I wore a bathrobe, I'd never admit it publicly. Ever. So what's the point in that?

     I've taken a hard look at the six-piece stoneware nesting mixing bowl set (2,000 points) and the seven-piece stainless steel utensil set (1,750 points). I don't really know stoneware. I do know Pyrex. If they were Pyrex bowls, I'd probably cash in. But if they were Pyrex, I wouldn't get six of them for 2,000 points.

     Then there's the one free rental day of a midsize car from Avis for the whopping sum of 2,000 points. If only I didn't work for Hertz....

     For 3,300 points, I could get three sets of AMC Silver Experience movie tickets at 1,100 each. Each set includes two large drinks and a large popcorn, so each is worth about $25 in junk food alone. But I don't go to the movies. I've seen maybe three in the last five years. I don't go unless politeness requires. 

     Reminds me of one of the last movies I did see at the theatre. The Notebook. Mom and dad wanted to go see it, but dad didn't want to drive. So I was designated driver, which meant they bought my movie ticket. Things were going just swell until we got to the part where the kids were in the old house alone and young Allie started taking off her clothes. My 70-something mother, who talks too loud because she can't hear, turned to my dad and said in her outside voice: "What are they doing? What is this movie rated?" The first question was rhetorical. It was obvious what they were doing. Everyone heard. Everybody snickered. I got up and went to get a Coke. Best $10 I ever spent on a watered-down Coke. When I came back, I sat elsewhere.

     Mom liked the movie, by the way. When it's on TV, she watches it again -- with the volume real loud because she can't hear. Whenever it gets to the juicy parts, I stop what I'm doing and either come into the room or just walk past, so she's aware of my presence. Too embarrassed to watch it in front of me, she always changes the channel until I leave. I loiter until I'm pretty sure the good parts are over.

     Anyway.

     Are there any good, beefy offers in this catalog at all? Well, 500 points could get me a $20 gift card from Omaha Steaks. Now we're talking! Quick math check: 4,000 divided by 500 is eight. Eight times 20 is 160. A hundred and sixty bucks worth of meat! At Wal-Mart, that's not a bad deal. At Swadley's it would be an awesome deal. At Omaha Steaks, that's about five pounds of 80/20 and a couple of chicken legs, excluding shipping. Or maybe two 12-ounce ribeyes. That's hard to swallow, even with the hundreds of Cokes I've chugged in the last year to get them for free.

     Maybe I expect too much. I should just take 10 years of Martha Stewart magazines at 400 points a year and call it a day. Or I could get 4,000 Cristian and Jacky "Laughing Out Loud" wallpapers at zero points each and still have all my points left over for all this other great stuff. That's enough wallpapers to give one to all my blog followers. Okay, as of today, that's enough to give 4,000 to all my blog followers.

    I don't know who these people are -- Cristian and Jacky -- but they look happy in the wallpaper, don't they? They're laughing. Out loud, no less. Probably just scored a rent one, get one free deal from Blockbuster for 50 MCR points and they're deciding what to watch.

     And that's when Cristian turns to Jacky and says "remember that time we saw The Notebook in Oklahoma City and that lady said....?"