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.

Some of you may remember a column I wrote for SportsBubbler back in December in which I urged Milwaukee Bucks rookie guard Brandon Jennings to stop tweeting. (After falling victim to a hoax, he has since done so – at least publicly.)  As a result of that article, I got the chance to speak with writer Davy Rothbart, who just happened to be writing a feature on Jennings for GQ Magazine.  (He mentioned that it will be in the April edition of GQ.  I have yet to ask him when my photo shoot will take place – I imagine it’s in the works.)

What I didn’t realize at the time is that Davy Rothbart is the editor of FOUND Magazine, a publication that collects various letters, postcards, pictures, shopping lists, and other items that people just randomly find on the street, then compiles them.  I admit I’m really late to this party – by the time I had heard of FOUND, two “best of” books had been printed and become bestsellers, and other people I knew had all heard of the phenomenon that is the magazine.  (I even ended up talking with my local librarians about it, as I overheard them talking about all the crazy notes and things they find in books when people return them.)

I went out and bought both books, and I was stunned at some of the items people had found and turned in to the magazine.  Some of the most moving entries are heartfelt notes people had written to others – some are merely comical in that they completely lack context. (Such as the note left on someone’s car that urges someone to “Please Do Not Put Crab on my Car.  Just cut it out!”)

Aside from just the prurient thrill of being able to gaze into someone’s life for a brief moment, some of the entries really serve as a mental exercise in time and space.  When people think about the problems in their lives, usually they can analyze them in terms of: 1) how they got into the predicament, 2) what all the relevant information to the problem is, and 3) what they need to do to get out of it.

And yet reading these letters allows for none of these three analytic tools.  You’re dropped right into the middle of a problem in someone’s life – you don’t know how that person got into trouble, you only know the information they have scrawled (inevitably, misspelled) onto a piece of paper, and you will never know if they got out of it.  Whether it’s a love note or a plea for a loved one to send money, or a threat to beat someone’s ass, there’s always a beginning, middle and an end – and you’re only getting one person’s interpretation of the middle.

There’s one entry that’s so perfect, though, I had to share it here.  It’s called “Dear Lyle,” and it’s clearly a letter written by a confused, pregnant young girl to her boyfriend. (It was found by Sam Costello, of Ithaca, New York.)  I’ll just wait here in my slippers and smoking jacket while you read it….

OK, I just read it again, too.  And it’s almost too perfect – too heartbreaking – to be real.

First, the fact that it’s on half a ripped piece of paper is so representative of the content of the letter itself, it’s almost eerie.  Reading only half of what this young woman is saying makes your brain jerk frantically around from topic to topic, much as hers probably was when she was writing it.  The fact that half her plea is missing almost makes you feel as hurried and confused as she was while she was making her decision to keep the child.  (For me, it recalls Tom Wolfe’s “Electric Kool Aid Acid Test,” in which Wolfe writes in such a way to make your mind careen around as if it were on LSD – which is what the book is all about.  It is also my favorite book.)

Furthermore, the ripped paper is also symbolic of this relationship as it moves forward.  It’s pretty clear the young mother is telling Lyle to stay away, so “we can go on with our lives.”  So, in effect, this child is going to have half a family – much as the note itself has been torn in half.  It’s almost too perfect.

And so here you are, immediately dropped into the life of a scared young girl trying to tell her child’s father that she’s going to go it alone.  And doing so with a disjointed, poorly spelled, crumpled up letter, that apparently Lyle didn’t think enough of to keep in one piece and/or keep in his possession.

Surely, one could sit for a while and think about possible scenarios that led up to this pregnancy, and what occurred afterward.  In fact, Rothbart published a book where people of note write about their favorite found items, and build stories around the details of what they imagine to be the genesis of such items. (It includes an essay by Chuck Klosterman, who I’m pretty sure would write something for Legless Nun Magazine at this point.  The guy is everywhere.)

In case I’m not doing justice to the whole FOUND phenomenon, here’s a video of one of Rothbart’s appearances on Letterman.  Good stuff.

You may view my giant marshmallow head on this edition of “Sunday Insight” from last weekend.

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Word comes today that they’re building a statue of former Milwaukee Brewer owner Bud Selig outside Miller Park.  Of course, Selig is known for blackmailing Brewer fans into building a new stadium, then cutting the team’s payroll, when he claimed publicly he would do just the opposite.  Oh yeah, and he served as major league commissioner during an era when virtually all the major players’ numbers are going to have to be wiped from the books.

About a year ago, I wrote a column discussing why we don’t build statues of important people anymore.  Everyone we honor either comes from the world of sports (Lombardi), is a fictional character (the Fonz), or spent their life as a circus animal.  Political figures are almost never honored with a statue anymore.  For example, in the City of Madison, there is no statue of James Madison.  There is, however, a statue of Wisconsin Badger athletic director Barry Alvarez.

Here’s an excerpt:

The Wisconsin landscape is replete with statues. Abraham Lincoln casts a watchful eye over the UW-Madison campus from his perch on Bascom Hill. (Presumably, watching modern students emancipate shots of Jose Cuervo from State Street bar drink specials.) Hans Christian Heg, the highest-ranking Wisconsin soldier killed in the Civil War, was honored in 1926 with a statue outside the Wisconsin Capitol. Certainly more recognizable to Wisconsin residents is Vince Lombardi, immortalized by a statue outside Lambeau Field. Jean Nicolet, credited as being the first white man to set foot in Northeast Wisconsin, is memorialized with a statue in Red Banks. (It is also rumored that after settling near Green Bay, Nicolet was the first man to call for Ted Thompson to be s-canned for running Brett Favre out of town.)

Despite these notable figures being immortalized by statues, it is curious that most of them were built nearly a century ago (Lombardi being the exception, but he’s a sports icon.) When reflecting on the significance of the Fonzie statue, it seems reasonable to ask: Why don’t we honor legitimately important people with statues anymore?

[...]

It is clear the public has completely lost faith in its elected leaders.  WPRI conducts annual polls that measure citizens’ views of their elected officials, and their approval rating has never been worse.  Plus, there are “good government” groups whose only reason to exist is to convince the public that their public servants are corrupt.  And in the infrequent event they’re right, it sullies the name of all public officials, whether truly deserved or only marginally deserved.

In fact, this disdain for public figures is so strong, it appears to be retroactive.  Good luck trying to pay tribute to any of our Founding Fathers these days, as most of them were white slave owners.  One can only imagine the opposition to building a statue of James Madison in our state’s capital, which just happens to be named after him.  As a result, Madison features a statue of football coach Barry Alvarez, but not the author of the Bill of Rights.

Second, there simply aren’t the huge issues out there to be solved that would warrant a modern politician the adulation necessary for a statue.  Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves, General George Washington saved our country from the British, and Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence.  Jim Doyle addressed the closing of the Janesville auto plant by rapping.

There appears to be a strong correlation between what people think about their elected officials and their desire to memorialize them with a statue. The days of universal admiration for our public servants is long gone – as are the great issues they stared down, with steely fortitude. Instead, we now pay tribute to non-threatening fictional characters, sports figures, and deadly circus animals. Sadly, as our society becomes more and more fractured, elephants crushing clowns seems the be the only thing we can all get behind.

So the world can stop worrying: John Edwards has a sex tape.  (Side note: Are they even “tapes” anymore? This already seems dated.)  It seems everyone has a sex tape these days – soon, potential employers won’t be judging applicants on whether they have a sex tape, but how good the tape actually is.  (“I like what you did there at the 3:46 mark, Chris.  I never would have considered wearing a Seattle Seahawks helmet and arm floaties to be so effective.  Welcome to the team here at Smith Barney.”)

I’ve given this some thought (although not specifically about the contents of Edwards’ video.)  And I have to admit – I just don’t understand the whole concept of the “sex tape.”  I mean, what could possibly be the upside in recording yourself having sex with someone else?  If I put together a list of “pros” and “cons,” they’d look like this:

CON:

The tape could fall into the wrong hands and my life could be ruined;

Suggesting taping this could cause these tentative sex negotiations to fall apart, forcing this woman to leave;

Upon viewing the tape, I could realize I am not the unstoppable stallion of love which I had envisioned;

This other person could use this tape to blackmail me for the remainder of my life.

PRO:

I’d only need about 45 seconds of tape, leaving my “Seinfeld” reruns intact.

—

Seems a little skewed, huh? Plus, it all just seems to be too much trouble.  As I tweeted, it never really appealed to me to join the “mile high club.”  Isn’t it difficult enough to join the “sea level club?” Why add a degree of difficulty?  I mean, I’m not exactly Paris Hilton or a Kardashian – leaking this tape isn’t going to propel me into superstardom or get me visits to the White House.*

I’m also fascinated by the mechanics of how this all goes down.  So, presumably, you bring a girl back to your place, and one thing leads to another.  Then, you casually mention… you want to pull out your video camera?  Has any woman in America ever said “yes” to this proposition? (Obviously, some have.  But none I’ve ever met.  I presume.)

Let’s say she says “yes.”  Then you spend the next fifteen minutes setting up the camera and tripod.  Maybe the battery isn’t charged all the way.  Maybe you have to fast forward through all the tape you’ve taken of your golf swing.  Awkward silence ensues.  In the meantime, she is starting to come to her senses and realize this could be a terrible idea.  (Unless you always have a video camera set up in your room, ready to go if this occasion arises – which is super creepy to begin with.)

After all this, let’s say this 300-to-1 pony comes in and she agrees to do it.  A week later, you decide to pop the tape in and have a look.  It would seem that this is where it gets really dicey.

See, when you finally trick some girl back to your house, and “stuff” happens, it gives the typical guy a big confidence boost.  You start to imagine yourself the way you presume she sees you – thin, attractive, and desirable.  This all occurs in a haze of lust, and presumably after a few Jose Cuervo-based drinks.

But after you watch the video, reality sets in.  You are not the Love God you remember – the starkness of the video shows that, in fact, you are pretty gross.  Furthermore, in the throes of passion, you didn’t notice that your companion had bullet holes in her ass and that she took out her dentures and put them on the side table.  She looks more like Popeye Jones than January Jones.

Is this the lingering memory you want of this encounter?  Of course not.  Why not stick with the alcohol-enhanced hazy bliss you remembered?

On second thought, given how much parents document their children these days, wouldn’t it make sense to have a record of their conception on file?  Seems like it would make a good family movie night – unless your wife accidentally pulls out the tape with the pizza delivery guy on it.  Awkward.

* – With the New Orleans Saints winning the Super Bowl, Reggie Bush’s girlfriend, Kim Kardashian, will certainly accompany him on his White House visit.  Just two weeks ago, Khloe Kardashian accompanied her husband, Lamar Odom of the Los Angeles Lakers, to his White House visit.  Upon seeing Khloe, President Obama is said to have gone up to her and said “I like your TV show.”

Set aside the fact that Barack Obama says he watches “Keeping Up With the Kardashians.” The mere fact that he knows the show exists is an impeachable offense.  It’s actually slightly worse than if Obama was secretly e-mailing U.S. nuclear reactor blueprints to Kim Jong Il.

UPDATE: Dee Dubs sends along this video of Louis CK contemplating his next career move.  It’s definitely NSFW.

My new column for WPRI is up over at their website.  It discusses the pros and cons of a potential presidental run by Wisconsin Congressman Paul Ryan.  Here’s a snippet:

Ryan came by his success the right way: by knowing a lot of stuff. He doesn’t appear to be the type to weasel his way into House leadership by cutting back room deals. He has forced his way into meaningful positions simply because he is a pencil-necked tour de force.

As such, he thinks that if only voters saw what he did, they would turn their thinking around. And if the polls on Congress’ stimulus package and health care reform bills are any indicator, citizens are doing just that.

When it was clear the Republican brand was ailing, Ryan didn’t abandon his principles – he doubled down on a “Roadmap for America’s Future” plan that reformed many of the federal government’s entitlement programs. For years, even staunch conservatives have avoided issues like Social Security and Medicare as if they were garage sale underwear. Yet Ryan figured we were grown up enough to handle the bad news, and had the foresight to propose real solutions. Thus, when things started to shift the Republicans’ way, he has come out the back end smelling like a rose – with intellectual gravitas earned by sticking to his guns during the worst of times for his party.