I was taking my kids to school this morning, and I noticed the car in front of me had “4WD” emblazoned on the back.  And I got to wondering – what difference does it make to me whether that guy’s car is 4 wheel drive or 2 wheel drive?  What would be the purpose of announcing to the world how many wheels are functioning on your car?  Isn’t that really a personal issue between the driver and his automobile?

Come to think of it, I’ve seen other outward declarations of engine capacity.  Aren’t there some cars that actually tell you how many cylinders they have in their engine? (V8? V12?  I don’t even know the lingo.)  Or that they have anti-lock braking systems?  I propose that car companies start putting things like “REALLY GOOD AIR CONDITIONER” on the back bumper of their cars.  Or “EXTRA LARGE CHANGE CUP,” just to make all the other drivers feel insecure.

While it’s slightly annoying in the car world, this could actually work in the people world.  Wouldn’t it be quicker to judge people if they just wore clothes that told us what they thought their most impressive quality was?  People could wear t-shirts that say things like “CAN BENCH PRESS 250 POUNDS” or “SCORED 1200 ON MY SATs.”  Not only would it provide an important fact about that person, but it would also highlight what they think is most important about them.

When you go out with a girl, she can wear a shirt that says “NOT UNTIL THE THIRD DATE.”  Guys can wear a sweatshirt that says “THERE’S A REALLY GOOD CHANCE I’M ON DRUGS RIGHT NOW.”  It takes all the guesswork out of interpersonal relationships – a true time saver.

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This week on the podcast, we review the new album from the band Hot Chip, “One Life Stand.”  We also discuss how hard it must be to play the guitar while you’re pregnant, how much of a ladies’ man George Michael is, and why British people love chocolate so much.

Listen Here:

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Also, I brought my video camera along for a little sneak peek at how we do the podcast:

My new column for WPRI is up over at the mothership.  It discusses how Congress is using health care for political cover.  It’s pretty much your run of the mill “here’s why health care is like a toupee” column that you’re probably sick of reading.

Read it here.

I honestly thought my Dad would be the last person to catch on to the internet.  He is your prototypical late adapter – he drove our family van (purchased 1985) until about three years ago – it got so bad, he had to start the ignition with a flat head screwdriver he kept in the glove compartment. (That is not a joke.)  I’m pretty sure for the last four years, it only had three wheels. (That was kind of a  joke.)

Anyway, much as we take away driver’s licenses from the elderly who can’t drive, I propose revoking internet privileges from old people that think they need to forward on EVERY piece of junk mail they get.  Every day, I get a new chain e-mail from my Dad – obviously, none of them say “Send this to 10 people and your son won’t despise you.”  Because he does, and I do.  (Okay, not really.)

I thought the one he sent me yesterday about the inventor of the Tootsie Roll was the last straw.  But then, he passed along a new “hot tip” for personal safety. (My safety tip for him would be to stop sending me this junk, so I don’t smack him in the head next time I see him.)

This new tip goes as follows: If you don’t feel like carrying a gun, and if you can’t get your hands on pepper spray, then you should carry the next best thing – WASP SPRAY.  To quote directly from the e-mail:

The wasp spray, they told her, can shoot up to twenty feet away and is a lot more accurate, while with the pepper spray, they have to get too close to you and could overpower you. The wasp spray temporarily blinds an attacker until they get to the hospital for an antidote.

(SIDE NOTE: An “antidote?”  Doesn’t this only work if you’re being attacked by Lex Luthor?)

So you heard it here first – carry around a can of wasp spray if you want to avoid being attacked by sexual predators.  And wasps.

One small thing, though – aren’t those cans of wasp spray pretty big?  How am I supposed to stick a giant can of insect spray in my pants without getting some kind of indecency ticket?  If you have to carry around something that big, you might as well just put your own sexual predator in your pocket, so he can molest the other sexual predator before he gets to you.

A final point – each city should have at least one store that carries all the products that people still think are legal, but have for some reason been banned for no good reason.  It’ll be a giant store of pepper spray, laser pointers, and plug-in hot pots.  (Each of which I have tried to buy in the past year, remembering they were once commonly accepted, only to be told they are not sold anymore.)  Soon, tube-shaped sausages will be on the list.  And once people start spraying wasp killer in each others’ faces, Raid will be on the shelves at the contraband store, too.  I give it until 2013, tops.

OK, first thing’s first – here’s our podcast for this week, where we discuss Saturday night’s Wilco show here in Madison, and review the album “Teen Dream” from the band Beach House.

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The Wilco show was at the Overture Center, the fancy arts center here in Madison that went from “cultural center” to “taxpayer boondoggle” with breakneck speed.  But it’s good to see them booking shows that sell out – they seem to be turning the place around by offering more high-demand artists.  Anyway:

We thought we got downtown in time to have dinner at Cooper’s, the new place on Capitol square.  But naturally, it was packed, with an hour wait.  People inside were jammed up against the window.  As we stood outside to plan our next move, I got a call that I saw was from an old fraternity buddy of mine.  We were still haggling on where to go eat, so I hit “ignore” on the phone, and saw that he left a message.  I put the phone back in my pocket, and felt it buzz again.  It was him again, so again, I hit “ignore.”  Again, he left a voice mail.  (I checked the voice mails, and it cut in and out, so I couldn’t tell what he wanted.)

Of course, two minutes later, I feel a tap on my shoulder – and it’s him.  He was a foot away from me, but inside and pressed up against the glass.  He was trying to call me to get me to turn around, where he was watching me ignore his calls.  Awesome.  I told him I really was going to call him back, but I think he wasn’t buying it.  So my bad, Pete.

After dinner, I split off and met some friends at Paul’s Club for a couple pre-show drinks.  While lounging on the couches there, we met some wildly entertaining gay dudes who were down from the Twin Cities for some kind of bar crawl.  They were a riot – so I slipped some money to my neighbor to go buy them some drinks.  Of course, she announces to them that it was me that purchased their stoli and cranberries.  So one guy complimented me on my Doc Martens – which I thought he was being sarcastic.  (I’m a little touchy ever since a girl at a concert a couple months ago called me “90’s Guy” – and she didn’t mean it as a compliment.  I was so mad, I threw my beeper at her.)

So this guy playfully told me I was cute – which I thought was awesome – I don’t get many compliments, so why not take the ones I can get, right?  But then later, I found out he said the same thing about another guy that was in our group.  And in a weird way, I kind of got mad – I thought I WAS THE SPECIAL ONE.  I felt like I had been cheated on.  Anyway.

We got to the show, and bought the child proof sippy cups of beer they make you use at the Overture center.  It didn’t take long for us to realize that we were sitting in front of the world’s biggest Wilco fan.  He knew every word to every song and was singing them at the top of his lungs.  Finally, I got up the nerve (a couple sippy cups later) to turn around and ask him to stop.  I said “I’m sure you’re a wonderful singer, but I didn’t pay $40 to hear you sing.”  He then reached toward me, stuck up his fingers and gave me the “talk to the hand” dismissive wave.  And I’d like to say there was more to it, but that was about it.  I shook my head and rolled my eyes, and went back to focusing on the show.  Oddly, he disappeared a few songs later.

All in all, a good night out for the old folks.  Nothing a few Advil and about four Eggo Waffles couldn’t cure.

In recent months, I have become somewhat of a fan of scotch. (Scotchy Scotch Scotch:)

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But here’s the thing – I am MOST fond of scotch that’s a tad on the expensive side.  For instance, my palate has taken very kindly to Johnnie Walker Black. (And if this makes you call me a pretentious prick, I’ll send my butler over to kick your ass.)  As fans of the brownest of the brown liquors know, JWB is aged 12 years – and goes down like warm water running in a stream through an oak forest. (I swear, I have not had any before writing this.)

Here’s a review of Johnnie Walker Black that I found entertaining – and trust me, the more you drink (in one sitting), the more this makes sense:

Whisky blends, like people, have individual characters. Some are smooth and polished in their manners, but may be short of character; then there are others that have strength, but lack lasting presence. But a characterful whisky blend, like a person, should be interesting to get to know. If everything is divulged at once, then there is nothing further to be revealed. However, if you feel that there’s more to discover, then you will want to explore your acquaintance further.

Johnnie Walker Black Label has an enigmatic character. The first sip leaves you with an overwhelming curiosity to discover more. As Black Label’s deep taste unfolds a myriad of flavours are revealed in several waves: first, there is an impression of silky richness; then deep and fruity foreground flavours give way to drier peaty nuances, followed by the complementary flavour tones of sweet vanilla and raisins.

So clearly, if they were to serve any scotch in the crapper at the mall Pottery Barn, this would be it.

But here’s what I wonder – what if I wanted to start a business where I made 12 year old scotch?  What exactly does that business plan look like?  You go to investors and say “yeah, I’m sure this will be the best whiskey ever – just give me your money, and in twelve years, you may see a modest return on your investment?”  Who the hell knows what your life will be like in 12 years?  For all I know, there will be a family of Asian Carp living in my house.  Drinking my Johnnie Walker Black.

I was at a store the other day looking for some running shorts.  Ones that you can actually wear in public, not those gross short little ones.  But I was distressed that a lot of running shorts aren’t more clearly labeled as such, since you need the… ahem… little built in liner in them.  So here’s what happens:

You walk around to each rack of shorts, then you open the shorts up and look inside to see if they have the liner.

By doing so, you look like a gross pervert that goes to stores to sniff the inside of men’s running shorts; or

By insisting the shorts have a liner in them, people think something is wrong with your balls.

Then other customers look at you, and give you the “what’s wrong with your balls?” look. (You know the one.)

Then a voice comes over the loudspeaker and says “CUSTOMER NEEDS HELP WITH HIS BALLS IN THE MEN’S SECTION.”

So basically, what I’m trying to say is:

I wish running shorts were better labeled.

On this edition of the podcast, we discuss whether hockey is more violent than football, what our lives would be like if werewolves were actually real, whether Ellen Page is the hottest Canadian woman ever, and new releases from Midlake and The Soft Pack.

Listen here:

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Here’s the Soft Pack’s performance on Letterman the other night:

On this week’s podcast we discuss the new album from the Florida band Surfer Blood, “Astro Coast.”  We agree that they sound like a combination of Journey, Pavement, .38 Special, Band of Horses, R.E.O. Speedwagon, My Morning Jacket, the Shins, Paul Simon and Vampire Weekend.  We also discuss Neon Indian, a hippie electronic band that I was much less enthusiastic about.

Listen to it here:

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Here’s a video clip of Surfer Blood that makes me feel 143 years old.