Sing All The Time

The idea seemed brilliant Sunday night when it was suggested that for this week's challenge I sing instead of talking. All day, all week, I have to sing when I want to say something.

A mere 24 hours later--after a day of singing rivaling Yoko Ono--Linda was ready for a new week. "Okay, you need to be quiet. Just don't talk for a bit. Okay?"

I'm so annoying I annoy myself. Can't wait to play poker with the guys Thursday night.

It started so well. I sang to Daniel all morning as he got ready for school. Linda sang along throughout the morning. We were living a Broadway musical, without the dancing, production values, or, really, the skill. Even boring sentences come to life when sung. For example (sung to "Oklahoma") "Ooookay, what should we do now? Doooo you want me to make you lunch?"

I thought I'd invented a cure for depression; it's impossible to be unhappy when you have to sing everything you want to say.


I sensed things were turning when Linda didn't exactly come back quickly from a short errand. Or when my parents called, and I sang them my week's plan, my mom sang back, "Okay, then we'll call you back next weeeeeek."

Kids never tire of it, however. I was briefly babysitting a friend's 4-year-old and we sang, "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" 11 times. I thought it was great parenting that the kid knew the song, until he sang, "So it's root, root, root for the Yankees..." Root for the Yankees? Who does that to a child?

Daniel played along all day, often singing right back. Me, to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb": "Can I watch the ballgame now, ballgame now, ballgame now?" Daniel: "Watch it in the other room, other room, other room."

Of course, the other room was where Linda was hiding. I can't blame her. If I was in a band, they'd turn off my microphone. They probably wouldn't even give me one in the first place.

But it will all be over soon, over soon, over soon. It will all be over soon, just six more days to goooooo.....

Day 2

American Idol's appeal is rooted in the common belief that we're all undiscovered singing sensations. We're all Whitney Houston or Robert Plant when we play Car Karaoke; if we lowered the volume on the radio, we'd find we're American Idol flop William Hung.

Today, I had the chance to play Simon Cowell. While Linda was singing her replies to my singing questions, I realized she was attempting to sound like Maria, Julie Andrews's character from The Sound of Music.

Wanting to keep her dream alive--and also realizing that Ozzy Osbourne sounds like Sinatra compared to me--I had a dilemma. Do I tell her she's no Julie Andrews? Do I call her out on the impersonation? How do you solve a problem like Maria?

I took the bait, singing the question to the tune of "My Favorite Things": "Do you think that you sound just like Maria?"

"I actually do think I sound good," she said, answering as earnestly as if she were being interviewed by Oprah. "I really do."

She then proceeded to a hit few more Maria high notes while I kept an eye on our glassware. I left her happily delusional as she got up to leave for a meeting. As she walked to the door, I was "treated" to another hit from The Sound of Music, "So Long, Farewell."

Holding the front door handle, Linda sang, "So long, farewell/auf Wiedersehen, Goodnight/I flit, I float/I fleetly flee I fly"--and gracefully tried to exit by ramming into the locked glass front door.

"She leaves, I heave/A sigh and say good-bye."

Day 3

There are places where my singing is appropriate, and places where it's not. Appropriate: the shower. Not: when I sang my order to the waitress at dinner the other night. Linda barely contained her laughter, but I wonder if my meal came with a little something extra, compliments of the waitress.

While it may not be appropriate, I enjoy singing to people who call us. I have a selection of lyrics I consider when I answer the phone, including:

"Hello, is it me you're looking for?" from Lionel Richie
"Hello, it's me," from Todd Rundgren
"Hello, my friend, hello" from Neil Diamond
and, for a select few, "Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name," from the Doors.

When the call's over, I opt from among:

"Goodbye to you," from '80s group Scandal
"So long, farewell," from The Sound of Music
"You say good-bye," from the Beatles
and, again, for a select few, "Bye, bye love," from the Cars.

Not surprisingly, I think our friends are calling less frequently this week. Or, as one so politely put it, "I can't imagine how sick of this Linda must be. Is this week over yet?" I guess someone won't be getting a "Hello, I love you" next time.

I rocked it out in one other entirely appropriate setting Wednesday: my car on a long drive. I must be improving because I swear I sounded just like every singer on the radio. Really. Jackson Browne, Kurt Cobain, Steve Miller--I was on! And when Tone Loc started, I could feel the karmic magic: "I asked the guy/'Why you so fly?'/he said, 'Funky cold Medina.'"

I always knew I was so fly.

Day 4

Poker night revealed just how schizophrenic my friends can be, which is one reason we get along. (I agree; me too.)

They loved the idea of my singing at first, laughing at the absurdity of it. They hated my singing when they realized it wouldn't stop. "It's like a nightmare that never ends," Phil said.

They loved the idea, even coming up with ways to make it tougher: "Your song should have to be relevant to the conversation," said Brian. To which Phil sang, "I'll take that bet/You're gonna regret/'Cause I'm the best that's ever been," in his finest Charlie Daniels twang.

They loved the idea so much they started singing replies back to me. (How annoying.) They hated the idea so much they wanted to charge me a singing tax for each poker hand.

They loved that I kept it up all night: "You're still doing it--I'm impressed," said Brian. They also hated that I was still doing it: "You know, you don't have to do that anymore--it's just us,"--also said by Brian. Talk about schizophrenic!

The one constant: my singing brought out their twisted creativity regarding what I can do in
future weeks. Sneak into the World Series. Dress and rhyme like the Cat in the Hat. Make meaningless gestures. Be Rainbow Man--the guy who carried the John 3:16 sign at sporting events. And the scariest: spend the week streaking.

So, they don't want me to sing, but they want to see me streaking? That's schizo. (I agree; me too.)

Day 5

My friends are trusting types, the poor souls. They'll leave me in charge of their children, which only encourages me to act down to the kids' level. Clearly, my friends have fallen victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is: Never get involved in a land war in Asia, as any fan of The Princess Bride well knows.

So I took the opportunity Friday to direct a music video starring me and four excitable kids under the age of 9. I now have an appreciation of what it's like to work with Axl Rose.

My song selection: Elvis Presley's "Blue Christmas," which I can sing spectacularly well, in my own humble opinion. Linda and Caitlin are similarly glowing in their praise, raving that it's the one and only song I mumble through without butchering beyond recognition. I blush at their high praise.

Since I'm singing all week, this is the perfect chance to record my legendary vocals for posterity. And because I'm watching four kids after school, why not make them my band: Elvis & The Four Sideburns?

And why not have one of them strum a broom like a guitar while I sing into a flashlight? And why not have all of us wear long Elvis sideburns made of black construction paper taped to our faces?

Voila--a star is born! Actually, as you see in the video, I get less camera time than Mrs. Thurston Howell III. In the camera hogs' defense, they do Elvis proud, or as Sam said, "I look rockingly funny!"


Days 6 & 7

My friends spent Saturday and Sunday playing "Hide And Don't Seek." They pretended they had other obligations--weddings, family parties, a cricket match in India. I was tempted to drive by their homes to catch them, but I know from past experience that they're all pretty quick to turn out the lights when I show up.

It doesn't matter; I know the truth. All the great ones experience this type of thing at one time or another: jealousy. They're envious of my 11-octave range (I'm sure I'm better than a 10). They saw my version of "Blue Christmas" and worry that my dulcet tones could dominate any get-together. Jessica Simpson once experienced the same isolation, which is why she was forced to hang around with Tony Romo.

A similar case of jealousy occurred in high school. Our school was performing Hello, Dolly! and the director, in need of guys to be anonymous waiters and dancers, begged my friends and me to help out.

We did, and after joining the cast, our talent was quickly discovered and we were placed in key, though non-speaking, roles. Such as anonymous waiters and dancers. Dolly, as I remember, may have still had a few tiny parts, but the show was all about us.

As the ovations on closing night washed over my friends and me, I can recall how Dolly and other so-called "lead actors" received roses afterwards. I guess it was a sort of consolation prize for them. Some people will do anything to deceive themselves.

Be a Famous TV Dad

Day 1

Why does Fred Flintstone wear a mini-skirt? Did Fred's feet never get cold because Bedrock was a southern city? And if I'm Fred, who can I get to be The Great Gazoo?

These seemingly irrelevant questions mattered as I prepared for this week's challenge. Each day, I'm going to be a different legendary TV dad. If nothing else, it means I'll have a job this week--actually seven different ones.

First, I'm bronto crane operator Fred Flintstone, the "Wilma!"-yelling, alien-seeing, barefoot father of the hippest modern Stone Age family. And right off the bat, my first concern was Fred's mini-skirt. He shows more thigh than Frank Perdue.

Nailing the wardrobe is important, because, despite the show's popularity, Fred's not famous for many legendary quotes. There's "Willll-maaa!," "Yabba Dabba Doo!" and "Bet, bet, bet, bet, bet, bet, bet" when Fred delves into his gambling funk.

I also spent the day singing Fred's "Lollobrickida" song: "Lollobrickida/I dig your food-ida/And if there is a jewel/It's your pasta fazooool."

I sing worse than Fred, which was another reason I had to nail the wardrobe. I found an orange shirt and shorts (I'm more modest than skirt-wearing Fred), a blue tie, and I cut some black construction paper into triangles that I taped to my shirt. Yabba Dabba Doo, indeed!

Daniel's grade-school friends weren't so excited when they got off the bus after school and saw my outfit. "Why are you wearing that?" one asked. "Because I'm Fred Flintstone today." Geez, I thought kids were supposed to be smart these days.

Daniel rolled with it, though he said he doesn't like The Flintstones. But he quickly warmed to the part he'd play when I gave him his options. Since Linda was Wilma, and Caitlin was Pebbles, Daniel had to be either Dino or Mr. Slate, my boss at the quarry.

“I get to be the boss of you? Cool!”

His first edict as boss: “I want pizza for dinner.” (I love how my boss thinks!) But in this case, Wilma wins out.

“I’m firing you,” he said. Well, alrighty then. So much for having a job. That one lasted all the way from his bus stop to our driveway, a grand total of four minutes. Still, I’ve had jobs I wished ended even faster.

Later, when he left a candy wrapper on the table, I asked him to throw it away, and apparently I'd been rehired without my knowing it. "Here," he said, handing it to me, "I'm your boss. You throw it away."

That kid's in big trouble by Day 7, when he runs into Seinfeld's Frank Costanza, George's dad. "You want a piece of me? You got it!" I'll give him serenity now.

Day 2

One of my poker buddies came up with the adjective "'70s-bad" to describe something from the decade that's so bad it's come full circle back to good. Like the Bee Gees and The Brady Bunch.

The TV show never cracked the top 25 in ratings, but, because of after-school syndication, people from my generation watched it endlessly, and know more incidents from the show than state capitals. The tiki doll, "Oh, my nose!," "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia," mean ol' Buddy Hinton, Johnny Bravo, Cousin Oliver ... I could go on, but I've got to get to work being an architect.

Daniel has never seen The Brady Bunch, and doesn't like that I'm calling him Bobby, but it's my job as Mr. Brady to teach him the meaning of '70s bad. So he's learning words like "groovy" and "far out" and dealing with his second name change in as many days (from Mr. Slate to Bobby). I hope this doesn't come back to haunt him. Or me.

After school, we played Whiffle Ball in the backyard and twice he hit balls that got lost in the garden. While looking for the lost balls--but also remembering the episode when Bobby and Cindy got lost in the Grand Canyon--I stood at the garden's edge calling out, "Bobby! Cindy!" I got Daniel to join in, but he couldn't figure out why we were calling out to a Whiffle Ball.

Of course, I broke out the '70s-bad clothing for the day--and didn't have to look far to find it. Everything but the shoes was in my closet, all having been worn in the last year or so. I also realized that for the first time in months, I've now worn a tie two days in a row; once to be a caveman and today a purple tie to match my green pants.

Daniel was happy not to be "Bobby" by day's end. I didn't have the heart to tell him that tomorrow I'm going to have to call him Meathead.

Day 3

There's nothing like starting your day by having your wife stagger across the room and throw her arms around you lovingly, the whole time screaming, "Oooohhh Arrrrchieeeee!"

I kindly replied to Linda/Edith, "Stifle it, you!"

Linda made a good Edith because she kept right on hugging. I should have then said, "No matter how long we've been together, Edith, you still, as the kids say, 'Turn me over.'"

But it was still "early in the morning when the crows cock," and before I had discovered the website dedicated to Archie Bunker-isms. There, I found a few valuable life lessons that I taught my son throughout the day, such as, "Remember, don't talk to strangers unless you know them well."

And, "We better not, ya know, kill our chickens before they cross the road." And "God don't make no mistakes, that's how He got to be God."

The way Daniel looked blankly at me, he'd have made a good Meathead, who once said to Archie, "You know, you are totally incomprehensible." "Maybe so," Archie replied, "but I make a lot of sense."

When Daniel was at school, I took off for downtown in my best Archie-wear: plain white shirt, drab-gray flood pants, and white socks with black shoes. The white socks/black shoes combo reminded me of my styling grade-school days, so I was a little self-conscious when I went to the dry cleaners.

That fear subsided when I remembered that when I'd dropped off my clothes there 10 days ago, I had been wearing my superhero cape.

Day 4

What does it say about me that of all my TV dads this week, I can relate best to Howard Cunningham, a plump middle-aged Milwaukee resident who enjoys sitting in his favorite chair and reading the newspaper?

"Accept it, Dad, you're middle-aged," my 17-year-old daughter Caitlin tells me. "You're 42--that's the middle of your life."

As they say in Happy Days, sit on it, Caitlin.

Mr. C and I aren't exactly alike; he owns a hardware store and I've never been in one. Still, we both have a wise-cracking daughter and a happy, naive son. Plus, from the second season on, Mr. C simply pretended his third son, Chuck, never existed. That's how I treat the family fish--it could even be named Chuck for all I know.

As for Caitlin, I think she has the physical comedy skills to spin-off her own TV show, the way Mr. C saw his daughter star in Joanie Loves Chachi. She and her boyfriend Graham--he'll be ecstatic to know I'm now calling him Chachi--were watching TV and decided to buy a half gallon of ice cream for all of us. But it was too frozen, making it harder to serve than soup by the rollerskating waitresses at Arnold's drive-in.

Caitlin let the ice cream sit out, and little by little we all helped ourselves as it thawed. Caitlin went last, and was left with a frozen core she was determined to break. Instead, as she scraped at it, the oversized snowball flew past her, onto the kitchen floor, and rolled away.

She came into the family room holding the ice cream ball between her two fingers like a dirty diaper, saying, "I only got one little spoonful. And now it's all dirty."

Chachi and I threw our heads back and laughed. Cue the closing theme and roll credits.

I think we're on to something.

Day 5

Cliff and Clair Huxtable got along so well, I'm convinced, because they didn't have to share an office. Cliff would head to his doctor's office, she'd go her lawyer's office, the kids would go their own way--hey, who watched over Rudy during the day?

Anyway, Linda and I work well together in many ways, especially when I'm pretending to acknowledge that our house is a Lindicatorship. (In reality, King John rules a benevolent monarchy, like Cliff.)

However, when it comes to our shared office, we each have computers on our desks, but that's about all we have in common. I'm a Mac and she's a PC--"my computer's not working again!" When I'm trying to write, I need silence and no distractions. No music, I don't pop open my e-mails, I don't answer the phone. I hate to lose my train of thought because the train so infrequently pulls into the station anymore.

Linda operates at her desk like a house party DJ. She asks questions, she giggles over e-mails from friends, she talks on the phone, and she never lets a thought waste a moment's time on its path from brain to mouth. "Why do I get so many junk e-mails?" "How do you spell 'acknowledge'?" "You have to see the e-mail I just got!" "Whatcha doing?"

That's why I'm now sitting three rooms away at the kitchen table.

Of course, in honor of Cliff Huxtable, I'm wearing a sweater, though I couldn't find anything that would belong in his patchwork-quilt-of-many-colors collection. All of my more "unique" clothing has slowly been sucked away since I've been married. Kind of like my sanity.

The other--"John!" she shouts from the other room. "How do you spell 'interrupt'?"

I shout back, "L-I-N-D-A."

That would have made Cliff happy.

Days 6 & 7

As is his lot in his cartoon life, Homer got the short shrift from me this week. Saturday, Lisa (Caitlin) was at a party, we dropped Bart (Daniel) at my aunt and uncle's house, and Marge (Linda) and I went out to dinner and a movie. I know what Homer would think: D'oh!

I more than made up for my lack of TV dad-dom the next day when, in honor of Seinfeld's Frank Costanza, we celebrated Festivus (for the rest of us)! Now, a traditional Festivus celebration concludes with The Feats of Strength, but George (Daniel) was up to the challenge first thing. "You want a piece of me? You got it!"

In the best-of-9, Brawl Til You Fall, George took me down with a knee to the face for a 5-4 win. The champ was modest in victory: "That was soooo easy. I beat up Dad."

I recovered from the defeat quickly, as Frank did when he said, "I feel reborn. I'm like a Phoenix rising from Arizona."

The Festivus celebration continued at our friends' house for The Festivus Meal. Of course, I took with me an aluminum pole, The Festivus Pole--"It requires no decoration. I find tinsel distracting."--and prepared for The Airing of Grievances. "I got a lot of problems with you people! And now, you're gonna hear about it."

While waiting for dinner and The Airing of Grievances, I was almost mauled by their gigantic 3-inch-long hamster, Miss Jibbles, which their son held terrifyingly close to me. Miss Jibbles' dinosaur-like jaws were a nightmare I won't soon forget. So I wasted no time as I began the grievances: "Animals are not our friends!"

We all took turns, with Phil's grievance being that I'd be returning to his house in a few nights for poker. Lucky guy.

As Festivus drew to a close, we talked about what my challenge should be next week. I was considering not using my thumbs, or not sitting, or foregoing personal hygiene--all good, all someday to be attempted. (Though the week I go without hygiene is when Linda wants to attempt "a week away from John.")

Out of nowhere, Gray suggested the perfect challenge, one that would achieve my goal of driving the poker guys crazy Thursday night: I have to sing all week--no talking. Alleluia! It was truly a Festivus Miracle!

Play Tag With Unsuspecting People

Everything lined up perfectly for me to play Tag with unsuspecting people for 24 hours. I started the day tagging Daniel, who got me back by calling my cell after I left for work and leaving a message: “Hi, Dad. Tag, you’re it.”

On the train ride in, I remembered it was “Bring Your Child To Work Day”—I didn’t take Daniel because he didn’t want to go—and I now would have a building full of kids/Tag targets.

Yep, things were looking good. Then the unexpected happened, something I’d never experienced during my past blog adventures. Previously, I wasn’t afraid to carry a stuffed Eeyore, or eat my food like a seal by tossing it in the air, or listen non-stop to Britney Spears songs for an entire week.

Do I mind making myself uncomfortable? No problem. But I quickly realized I wasn’t comfortable crossing the line and making someone else uncomfortable. How could I play Tag if I worried about touching people? I was like a sword swallower who’s afraid of sharp objects.

I couldn’t touch the woman who sat next to me on the train. I wanted to touch the cop standing in the aisle, but couldn’t get up the nerve. Walking in Suburban Station, the targets ping-ponged around me like lottery balls in a bubble, and I was afraid to reach out and touch them.

I initially thought I’d tag between 70 and 90 people by day’s end, but by 11 a.m., I still had only one. So I visited a couple friends who brought their kids, and quadrupled my total by tagging all four kids as we played a quick game of Tag in an office.

Back in Suburban Station at day’s end, I was desperate, so I tried the subtle tag. I bumped into people gently and said, “You’re it,” but even I knew that was like calling flag football a contact sport.

Finally, as we pulled up to my train stop, I had a wild idea: maybe I should act like a mad man and tag everyone along the way as I exited the train. Sure, I’d get some funny looks, and certainly a few stares at the stop for the next few days, but I had to make up for failing worse than Enron.

But I still couldn’t do it. So I ended up with a whopping total of 14 people tagged. On most days, I could bump into that many people in an elevator.

So I throw myself on the mercy of the court of public opinion: What should be my one-day punishment for playing chicken instead of Tag?

Should I wear my dog’s Cone of Shame, dress like an Oompa-Loompa, or do something else as suggested by you, the judges and jury?

Eat My Food With Chopsticks

Here's an oldie from 2 years ago, while I spend today playing Tag with unsuspecting people. My goal: to tag at least 200 people. Whether they like it or not...

Day 1

I don't experiment often when it comes to food. I believe I set the St. Anastasia's grade school record with 723 straight days of peanut butter and jelly for lunch.

No surprise, I'm not a fan of Chinese or Japanese food. Of course, if I actually tried either one, I might like them, but that's beside the point.

In my lifetime, I've probably eaten just two or three meals using chopsticks, including one sweat-inducing business dinner. We were in a pricey New York City restaurant a client had selected, and even as we were ordering, I was planning the chips and fries I'd eat later that night since I figured I'd get maybe two bites of food into my mouth using chopsticks. I was right.

Now, I'm going to spend the week making up for lost time--not with Chinese or Japanese food, just with the chopsticks. I'll work my way up to the food in a few years. Maybe.

No finger foods, cereals, or soup. It's chopsticks or nothing.

And if my first day is any indication, I believe I've created a best-selling new fad diet. Who wants to eat when it takes 30 frustrating minutes to down a grilled cheese sandwich using chopsticks? And that wasn't even my hardest meal of the day.

I ate reheated lasagna that was closer to frozen lasagna by the time I was done. Despite a quick chopsticks lesson from Linda earlier in the day, I was Edward Scissorhands trying to guide the food in the vicinity of my mouth. By the end, my face was so close to the plate I looked like a dog lapping its meal.

Still, I don't plan to avoid the things I love to eat. I didn't have any today, but chips and ice cream are still part of my healthy diet and I'll find some way to get them on my chopsticks. Maybe I'll MacGyver it--if I attach chewing gum to my sticks will that ruin the potato chip taste?

Day 2

Most people wouldn't use chopsticks for corn, so do I go down in Emily Post infamy for using them for candy corn? In my defense, it was really easy. And I needed to eat a vegetable yesterday and candy corn was all I could come up with.

I'm improving my chopstick dexterity each time I eat. I better, or I'll look like a chopstick.

I've found that some foods I thought would be difficult are surprisingly easy. Rice tends to clump, so that wasn't a problem. Hard foods, such as candy corn and granola bars, are also simple because you can get a good grip on them.

However, sandwiches are too heavy and impossibly unmanageable. I'm sure I'm breaking new ground with that discovery. So for the second straight day, after 25 minutes my sandwich looked like New Hampshire by the time I was too exasperated to continue. You know I was struggling if I had enough time to even recognize the shape of New Hampshire.

Day 3

A friend yesterday pointed out a Wikipedia article on how to use chopsticks. Unfortunately, it didn't mention anything about how to eat the meal Linda made last night.

In our marriage, I'm allowed to forget things. That's part of my appeal, I think. (If not, then I'm not exactly sure why I'm appealing.) But Linda is not supposed to forget anything--and she's great at remembering that she didn't forget that I forgot. If I remember correctly.

So why was I facing a delicious meal of pork chops, a baked potato, and corn--armed only with chopsticks? "Oh, I completely forgot. Sorry." She'd make a great politician with that apology.

I'm a naturally slow eater, but yesterday's dinner took longer than an L.A. commute as I fumbled with the pork chop and chased the corn around my plate. And what had been a nice rectangular stick of butter looked like a craggy piece of coral by the time I finished skewering it.

While eating, I noticed that when I concentrate while using the chopsticks, my left hand curls like a question mark. So not only wasn't I eating much, I looked funny doing it. It reminded me of my brother; when he concentrates, his tongue sticks out and up so far I often thought he'd come away with a hitchhiker from his nose.

If they had camera phones when we were growing up in the 1980s, Paul and his tongue would be internet sensations!

Day 4

Two words make every kid happy, including over-aged kids like me: ice cream! And one word can ruin the fun: chopsticks!

That was my fear, at least, as I opened a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I actually felt I owed the ice cream an apology for what I was about to do. Turns out, it's pretty easy to eat ice cream with chopsticks once the ice cream melts enough for the sticks to break through.

The ice cream wasn't my toughest challenge of the day. That came at lunch when I made myself nachos with olives. (Yes, my diet is worse than a pregnant woman's cravings. One of these years I'm sure I'll start looking like Jabba the Hutt. Would that make Linda my Princess Leia?)

Anyway, initially it was hard to get the nachos separated since the melted cheese stuck together like high school sophomore girls. But once I had the chips apart, I was okay. And I've gotten adept enough with the sticks to easily pick up the individual olives.

I've definitely learned how to work the chopsticks now. And, looking back on what I've eaten this week, I've also learned I've got to find out what's the big deal about fruits and vegetables. I hear they're good for you.

Days 5 & 6

I can’t believe it took me until Friday to put the chopsticks in my mouth so I’d look like a walrus. Five days? I should have done that at my first meal. I hope that doesn’t mean I’m maturing.

I went walrus during lunch while eating a hot dog and roll with chopsticks. I looked better as a walrus than I did trying to balance the hot dog on my sticks. I was tempted to spear the dog and bun, but that's considered bad form. (But using the sticks to look like a walrus isn't?)

Next up, my son's--and my!--favorite meal of the week: pizza. I purposely order more than our family will eat Friday night so I'll have pizza left over for breakfast and lunch Saturday. Unfortunately, Daniel doesn't enjoy pizza for breakfast yet. Sometimes you fail as a parent when it comes to teaching your kids what's right.

Obviously, this was the first time I'd ever eaten pizza with chopsticks. Has anybody? It started easily enough once I had a system. I held the plate close to my face, used the chopsticks to flip up the end of the slice, and chomped away. It got harder as the pizza got smaller, and as I approached the crust, I needed to lift it with my sticks.

On the second slice, my face was so close to the plate I looked like a dog catching a frisbee. On one bite, I chewed into a chopstick. On another, I nearly bit the plate.

Of course, that didn't stop me from doing it all over again Saturday morning for breakfast. And lunch. I couldn't have pizza for dinner Saturday--that'd be unhealthy. But I did have some more candy corn.

Day 7

I wondered when I started this week if I'd lose a pound or two. My inability to use the chopsticks, added to my frustration at trying, would make me skinnier than Olive Oyl in no time.

If so, I had visions of launching my new fad meal plan, The Chopsticks Diet. "Eat all you want--using only chopsticks! Drop 5 to 10 pounds a month! Forever! You can't fail!" I had big plans for exclamation points!

Book sales would soar, The Chopsticks Diet would sweep the country, and I'd become Bill Gates-rich, or at least wealthy enough to be Ponzi scheme bait. I don't want to be ripped off, of course, it's just nice to be thought of, you know?

Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way for a simple reason noticed by my daughter Caitlin Sunday. "You're getting pretty good," she said, as I deftly picked up a peanut with my sticks.

Yes, sadly I was. My Monday struggles were long gone and now I can--and did--eat almost anything effortlessly with chopsticks. As for losing weight, well, I followed The Chopsticks Diet meal plan, ate whatever I wanted--"using only chopsticks!"--and gained a pound.

Hmmm ... Wonder how that happened?

Wear a "blue tooth"

I drew an oversized tooth on a piece of paper, had my 9-year-old son color it blue, taped the blue goof to my ear, and pretended to be a status-symbol-proud Bluetooth owner.

Why should I labor to hold a phone all the way up to my ear when I can have a "blue tooth" taped to it?

What did I discover as a new blue tooth owner? Jealousy. Right from the start.

Daniel, perhaps sensing my newly elevated status, didn't want me to have a blue tooth. "Can I color it black?"

What? It's not a BlackBerry.

"Can I color it purple?"

He wasn't the only person trying to ignore my elevated status by playing dumb. Trust me, I know when someone's acting dumb.

I helped two fellow volunteers at Yardley's Old Library and neither said a word about the artistic excellence flapping from my ear. So I decided to hit Yardley's hot spots: Wawa, Starbucks, and one of the three pizza places within a quarter mile of each other. In a town the size of a Twister mat, these are the places to be seen.

But no one questioned me about my new blue heaven. Even in Starbucks, where my blue tooth "rang" so I answered the "call" and had a loud minute-long "discussion.” No one raised a caffeinated eyebrow. What a bunch of pretenders.

I wondered if, as a new blue tooth owner, I simply wasn't aware of the secret rites of ownership. Is there a little-known sign, such as the low peace wave motorcyclists give each other? Or should I tug my ear like Carol Burnett?

I figured if I simultaneously waved a low peace sign, tugged my ear, and jutted out my teeth in a massive toothy overbite, then other blue tooth owners would see I'm one of them. The cool ones.

I considered walking down Main Street sporadically waving, tugging, and jutting to possible fellow blue toothers before I realized I might have a problem. I haven't shared my blue tooth phone number with anyone.

How could other blue toothers contact me without it? What a common-man mistake I'd made.

So I made up a number, 325-322-5563, and "sent" it to everyone I knew with a "blue tooth." While I waited for my blue tooth to blow up with welcoming calls, I realized I could make it easier for my fellow Toothies to contact me by having the numbers spell out something.

In my case, oddly enough, my numbers spelled: F-A-K-E C-A-L-L M-E. How strange.

I ended my blue tooth day waiting at the train station to pick up my parents, who were arriving from Colorado, and, when they saw me, pretended they didn't know what a Bluetooth was. Righhht. Clearly, my blue tooth was again a victim of the green-eyed jealousy monster.

When I was a kid, my dad wore suits and snappy fedora hats, making him the spitting image of Dallas Cowboys coach Tom Landry.

Now that he has been living in Wild West Colorado for years, he stepped off the train wearing a 10-gallon Cowboy hat the size of my house.

Geez, what some people won’t do for attention.

No Left Turns

I'm revisiting my old, week-long entries as I mix in my new 24-hour approach. Coming tomorrow: I wear a blue tooth. No, not a Bluetooth, but an oversized, blue-crayon-colored drawing of a tooth. I'm so hip to the latest tech trends. Today, it's an oldie from 2 falls past.

Day 1

Since I'm currently contemplating a personal paradigm shift and exploring future career-altering possibilities (a.k.a. unemployed), I decided to make myself an honorary employee of UPS. In my new position, I can't be bothered with things other UPS employees do, such as perform actual work, show up on time, handle customer service. Nah, that's for regular employees. As an honorary employee, I'm special.

All I have to do is stop making left turns when I drive.

It's true: UPS discourages its drivers from making left turns, attempting to eliminate idling at traffic lights. Since deploying route-planning technology in 2004, UPS has cut millions of miles off delivery routes, saved 10 million gallons of gas, and reduced CO2 emissions so much that it's the equivalent of taking 5,300 cars off the road each year.

In other words, all was well until I came along. 

I didn't feel so efficient on my first trip of the week after I drove a four-mile loop to end up a half-mile from my house. It doesn't happen often in my life, but in this instance I over-thought the process. I quickly realized a series of short right turns is more effective than one overly planned long loop.

As a sometimes impatient driver, I like how the UPS approach keeps me moving. I'm stuck at fewer red lights trying to go left because I simply go right, right, right. I'm a regular George Will at the wheel.

One downside: since my house is on the left-hand side of a one-way street, I can't turn into my driveway all week. My neighbors across the street are going to be sick of seeing my car parked in front of their house. What can I do? It's company policy, ma'am, even for honorary employees.

Day 2

I went for a run and considered applying the UPS approach. Then I remembered my sense of direction in life is worse than Lindsay Lohan's. I could see my two-mile run turning into a marathon, and I'd still somehow be just a half-mile from home and not know where I am.

Mowing the lawn was different, however. I figured if I only made rights, I can't get lost on a .4 acre of land. I think.

That's when I discovered that subconsciously perhaps I've always wanted to be a UPS driver. I didn't have to change a thing about how I mow the run--I've always only made right turns. I may have no future in NASCAR, but UPS just may be my calling.

I'm also developing an attitude toward the competition. I look down on those gas-guzzling postal workers idling at traffic lights. And don't even get me started on those left-leaners at FedEx.

Day 3

Because I know corporate America hangs on my escapades, I sent an e-mail to UPS Public Relations telling them of my week's plan. Surely they'd be bride-on-her-wedding-day giddy, right?

When I saw an e-mail in my inbox the next day from UPS, I was a.) surprised; 2.) expecting a form-letter reply; *.) worried they'd make me cease-and-desist; #) not expecting what happened.

Elizabeth Rasberry wrote, "Thanks John! Very cool, huh? I like your blog post. I do have one question for you...did you wear brown?! :) I am in the Reputation Management team working on environment issues, so this is right up my alley!"

Rasberry is my new favorite flavor! Rasberry got right into the spirit, even detailing how she takes the UPS approach on her own personal trips. "Once you do the right-hand turns thing, you'll be constantly thinking of the most efficient way to get your errands done....I need a life, I know!"

Right there with you, Elizabeth, right there with you.

Of course, she had a point: I needed to wear brown. So I grabbed a brown collared shirt and khaki shorts and now had my uniform for any deliveries I'd make. (Here I am in uniform attached at the cheek to my first delivery). I had to drive my son to school, which sits on the left side of a narrow country road without a viable right-right-right turn option anywhere in sight.

I mentally outlined a long, roundabout route, but made a last-minute adjustment, pulling alongside the right side of another road a short distance away and walking him a short distance. The school crossing guard, who may have babysat one of Egypt's Pharoahs, asked, "Why did you stop all the way down there?"

With a glancing nod at my brown shirt--on duty, ma'am--I said, "I'm new at the job." She smiled/grimaced/prepared to dial 9-1-1, and I delivered my package to school. That's what brown can do for you.

Day 4

If I had an honorary boss overseeing my role as an honorary UPS driver for the last 24 hours, he'd be going postal on me. Or is that term just for our competition? What's the phrase for an angry UPS employee? "Look out, he's about to show what brown can do to you!"

My UPS crime: I improvised a little too much as I drove in unfamiliar territory over the last two days. I discovered that if you go past the left you'd like to take, but then quickly turn right into the parking lot of a 7-11 (once) or a grocery store (three times), then right again toward a separate exit, then right again, you're on the road you want. I'm pretty sure that's illegal, and I'm certain it's a UPS no-no right up there with wearing a FedEx-colored purple shirt.

On the one occasion, I was rushing to get to back-to-school night, and the other instances I was on a 45-minute shopping trip and had no idea where I was. However, in my defense, I didn't make any left turns, or get any tickets for my driving. Nor at any time did I go postal.

I wonder if my mail carrier will go postal on me if she reads this.

Day 5

I'm at my college's reunion weekend and finally found something good about golf: You can drive anywhere! It was easy to avoid left turns because I could simply right-right-right whenever I wanted. My playing partner wasn't as happy about my discovery.


The only thing worse than my all-over-the-course driving was my all-over-the-course shot-making.

The drive to campus required only one cheat (past my desired left, two right turns through a drug store parking lot and back onto the road). And I took just one right-right-right turn that took me five minutes out of my way on unfamiliar roads. I was a little lost briefly, but not as much as I was while searching for the eight balls I lost on the golf course.

Days 6 & 7

I rode shuttle buses from the hotel to the campus for reunion events Saturday, and, though I considered it, I didn't ask the driver if he would please only make right turns. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but my rowdy, bus-riding alumni friends looked like an intimidating gauntlet back to my seat.

That left only my 60-mile drive home on Sunday as the remaining obstacle to my UPS driver's week. And thanks to a right-right-right through a Wendy's parking lot, and another through a local park, I made it home easily enough.

After close to 200 miles of driving all week, I finished with no tickets, no accidents, no lost deliveries--though a few lost minutes of driving--and, most importantly, no left turns. And I can finally give my brown shirt a desperately needed wash.

Obey the Magic 8 Ball

Something about a Magic 8 Ball brings out the little kid in everyone. Why else would I be waiting at Daniel’s bus stop wearing a pair of shorts on my head?

The “short-haired” look aside, my day following the Magic 8 Ball’s guidance has proven the appeal of the little black toy that answers your every question. My friends, kids, restaurant employees—people were drawn to the 8 Ball like it was an unguarded bank vault.

There are 20 possible replies—10 positive, 5 negative, and 5 non-committal—and I ran the gamut the whole day, whether I wanted to or not. I was on a roll early, with the first four questions going my way, including the reply to 9-year-old Daniel’s question: “Will I be the master and will Dad do everything I say?” The 8 Ball’s reply: Better not tell you now.

Sorry, Daniel, but it looks like I have only one Master today. I was working from home, so around 9, I asked the boss, “Should I start work now?” 8 Ball: My sources say no. Well, say hello to my little friend, and I like the way it thinks.

I wasn’t such a big fan of others’ thoughts, though, after I invited people to ask the 8 Ball questions for me. Linda asked, “Will John go to Home Depot, his least favorite place, and fix the grass trimmer, his least favorite tool?” 8 Ball: Signs point to yes.

Least favorite tool? I didn’t know I had a favorite one. Or could even name three.

On the way, I decided to push the envelope a little. I asked, “Should I obey the speed limit?” 8 Ball: Concentrate and ask again. I put the 8 Ball on the seat and decided to ask if I should run a red light, when out of nowhere a cop pulled up behind me. You’re as likely to see a dolphin as a cop in my small town, so I think the 8 Ball was sending me a message.

I realized I can use the Magic 8 Ball powers for evil—like when I considered asking if I should egg my friend Phil’s house—or for good, such as, “Can I eat out for lunch?” 8 Ball: Without a doubt. To the lunch, not the egging.

“That thing telling you anything good,” the woman behind the Cosi counter asked with a laugh as my little friend and I ordered.

“Let’s ask the 8 Ball,” I said. “Have you told me anything good today?” 8 Ball: Yes, definitely. Cocky little thing, isn’t it?

And speaking of cocky, my poker-playing buddies decided to chime in with their own unique requests. Which is why I had shorts on my head as my son’s bus rumbled toward me and our friend Ann, who is Elliot's mom. (She saw me wear my clothes inside out for a previous blog task, so she’s learned to roll with whatever comes from the Roach Motel for the Childishly Insane.)

Kids being kids, the guy with shorts on his head wasn’t avoided, but treated like Santa Claus handing out Halloween candy and iPods. They all wanted to ask questions, so I let each ask the 8 Ball anything they wanted me to do.

When Halloween rolls around, I’ll be dropping Mount Everest-sized fists of candy into Elliot’s bag for asking, “Can Mr. Roach take his pants off his head?” 8 Ball: It is certain. Thankfully Elliot remembered to include those last two words in his request.

Be a Superhero

I'm revisiting my old entries until I start my new approach, in this case, yesterday's Magic 8 Ball experiment. I used to come up with ideas for an entire week, but I'm now taking things a fun day at a time.

Day 1

There are plenty of ways to be a superhero. You could be a foster parent to a needy child. You could donate blood. You could volunteer at any number of organizations that help others.

Or you can buy a cheesy $10 cape and give yourself an even cheesier superhero name. Introducing: SuperRoach! I'm going to spend the entire week wearing a superhero cape and looking for opportunities to be a superhero.

Hands down, this idea--submitted by my friend Kurt--has caused the most concern in my family. Seventeen-year-old Caitlin fears people are going to think I'm from Paula Abdul's planet. (Possibly true.) Wife Linda and 7-year-old Daniel were on-board until they saw me return from my cape-shopping trip wearing my superhero gear. And it was just a cape--no form-fitting tights. Yet.

"Oh no! Oh no--this is too weird!" Linda moaned as I walked in. Daniel added, "This embarrasses me. My dad is koo-koo!" (Definitely true.)

Still, I had my superhero moments on Day 1. Linda was reading The Time Traveler's Wife and was confused by the book's chronology. "I need your help," she called. SuperRoach to the rescue!

I played games in the backyard with Daniel and his friends--who simply rolled with it when they saw Mr. Roach wearing a cape. What do those kids' parents say about me if wearing a cape is considered normal?

Wearing the cape led me to consider other questions as well. Why don't we ever see superheroes grocery shopping? How does Superman stay so buff if we never see him working out? These questions became practical realities for me when it came time to mow the lawn in my superhero guise.

Batman, of course, has Alfred the butler to do his dirty work, but I was stuck walking the yard in a black billowing cape as cars drove by. I simply waved and kept at my superhero yard work. A neighbor mowing his lawn saw me and burst out laughing. If they're laughing at me, I imagine Robin, a grown man called The Boy Wonder, must suffer from a massive inferiority complex.

Perhaps that's the subconscious reason I didn't wear the cape when I went for my run. There's also the practical concern about getting my cape sweaty and dirty. Linda, however, now fully committed to my superhero persona--or fully committed to having me committed--called me out for not wearing it. So now I'll wear it for the rest of the week's runs.

I'm pretty sure at some point this week I'm going to wind up trying to explain SuperRoach to a local police officer. Especially if I start wearing the superhero tights.

Day 2

My past week’s challenges provided me a façade of normalcy. Going without math, soda and chips, or saying my own name can be concealed easily enough. My quirkiness didn’t physically set me apart from my fellow man.

Until I walked into my local service station for routine car maintenance with a Batman cape flapping in the breeze behind me. I stood out like a man walking the plank. Cape fear, indeed.

Now, this was hardly my first display of public idiocy. Once, at a baseball game with a group of high school friends, I inadvertently walked in the exit door of a ladies' room. Oblivious to my error, I walked into one of the stalls, finished, left the stall, washed my hands at the sink, and, looking to my left, wondered why a woman was washing her hands in the men’s room.

I exited quickly to see my friends laughing so hard I thought they’d break a rib. Or maybe I wished they would.

Anyway, at the service station, the reaction was the complete opposite. Apparently the cape either scared people—a mom kept tapping her child to keep her close—or left them cold. Let the moron be, they probably said to themselves. Don’t know for sure, the Super-Sensitive Hearing hasn’t kicked in yet.

I walked past, or talked to, five employees and then sat with six customers in the waiting room. No one reacted to the cape, or looked at me twice. Perhaps they appreciated how I’d color-coordinated it with my shirt. I picked up my keys when I was called, paid, and left. They must get superheroes every day.

Now, all of the above was written before lunch, when I went for my run. Heeding my promise to Linda, I wore the cape as I drove to a park to work on interval training at a football field. After six of a planned 16 100-yard sprints—I’ll show that “faster than a speeding bullet” Superman what serious speed is—I started my seventh. And felt like I got shot in my left leg.

I pulled up, tried to put weight on my leg, and felt fire shooting through my calf. Within seconds, one of my first thoughts was, “They're going to think I'm nuts when I show up in my cape at the hospital.”

For now, I’m icing and elevating. But SuperRoach thinks a hospital trip is needed after he picks up SuperBoy at the bus stop this afternoon.

Could it be: SuperRoach in a cast? Who will save the city now? And will anyone be able to keep a straight face when our hero’s cape gets caught in his crutches? Stay tuned!

Day 3

If Superman doesn’t go to the hospital, neither does SuperRoach! Not exactly a great reason not to have my calf injury professionally checked, but I consulted experts, including my 7-year-old, a website, and a wannabe-doctor wife.

The diagnosis: a calf muscle strain, which comes in a range of three grades, 1, 2, or 3. Since I’m spending the week living every first-grader’s dream job, I diagnosed myself with a Grade 1 strain. Plus, I remember my daughter’s Grade 3 math homework and it was way beyond my Super Skills.

So, I’m wearing a black cape indicating my superhero status, yet hobbling on crutches. My neighbor Kristen saw me stumbling toward her and said, “Oh please, how long will this last?”

“Not long, maybe a week or so until the pain lets up,” I said.

“I mean the cape,” she said. Turning toward Linda, she added, “And you have to be seen out in public with him?”

“I thought it was bad before,” Linda said.

Kids see me for the superhero I am. I asked Daniel’s young friend Emma, “What do you think of Mr. Roach when you see him in a cape?”

“Up, up, and away?”

Exactly. And that’s why, even on crutches, I was in my element while the kids played outside. BAM! I rescued a badminton birdie from dizzying heights (by knocking it from a tree branch with my crutch). KAZOOM! I saved two soccer balls lost to the wilds (of our garden). YEOW! I swooped in to aid a wounded child (from a soccer ball injury).

I don’t ask for any reward for my superhero efforts. Just knowing my work is appreciated is all that counts. “I call my dad, ‘Super Koo-Koo,’” said Daniel.

Day 4

I forgot to mention that I have two capes. I picked up my casual cape, which ties at the neck with strings, at a dollar store, then later bought my work cape, which has a more formal Velcro attachment and stiffer collar. I think it’s important for superheroes to dress appropriately for their heroic occasions.

Today, that would be a Wawa run for chips and Coke—definitely a casual cape affair. I pulled into the parking lot and saw … a police car. I was tempted to back out, but a superhero has to overcome his fears. I’ve yet to have to explain my caped crusading, so I rolled the dice one more time.

The cop appeared to be finalizing his coffee selection as I walked up to pay, certain he’d be right behind me any minute. But it didn’t happen. Instead, while trying to get out of the store quickly and discreetly, I encountered the kindest and friendliest cashier and fellow customer a guy could ever want.

Unless he’s wearing a cape and trying not to make a scene.

Apparently my cape is like Harry Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility—but my crutches shine like a teenager’s braces. “Can I help you carry this to your car?” the cashier asked. No, that’s okay, thanks. “No. Let me help you—it’ll just take a moment.”

“Here, I’ll help him—it’s no problem,” the customer behind me offered. No, I’m alright. “Really, let me carry the bag for you.” Get lost before I slam a crutch into your skull! Now let me outta here before the cop arrives to take me to Gary Busey's funny farm. If you don’t mind, pretty please.

“Jim, come here,” the cashier said, motioning to another employee. “Carry this out for him, okay?” Oh goody, her hearing matches her eyesight!

Jim, of course, couldn’t see the cape either because he asked only how I’d hurt myself and not why I looked like Eddie Munster. "How'd you hurt it?" he asked. Trying to escape Wawa before I clubbed someone, I wanted to say.

Climbing into the car, I closed the door on my cape for the third time this week. I’m not used to how the cape trails me like a dress. It also got caught in the oven yesterday when I was helping Linda with dinner. I'm pretty sure if I were a woman who wore dresses, I’d regularly wind up naked or on fire.

Day 5

For the first time all week, I was recognized for the superhero I am! I went to the library to renew two books and immediately saw a friend's father getting into his car. After a few quick pleasantries, he became the first person besides my neighbors to comment on the long, black polyester drape hanging from my neck: "So, what's with the cape?"

"Feels good to be a superhero once in a while, you know?"

He laughed knowingly--I'm sure he's wanted to wear a cape at some point--and we went our separate ways. But he knows whom to call if he's in trouble this week.

Once the Cloak of Invisibility was lifted, I was fair game for everyone. Inside the library, I greeted a neighbor working behind the desk, asking her how she was doing. A woman checking out books next to me overheard and cut in. "He's on crutches and wearing a cape and he's wondering how you're doing?" she said.

The librarian helping the woman added, "I bet you wish you could fly now, huh?"

Was Comedy Hour wrapping up at the library? Walking out, I remembered what a friend had said to me over the phone earlier in the week. "You know, you're going to look like Homer Simpson when he wore a cape."

Felt a little kicked around like Homer, too, as I walked out of the library. But you can't keep a good superhero down--I was off to do super-housework in preparation for having our neighbors over for dinner. Though I sometimes wonder when we're cleaning the house before friends arrive: Why does the place suddenly have to be spotless for friends who've been here when you could write your name in dust and it looks like a Lego factory exploded?

I think my neighbor would agree. When she walked in, she said, "I was going to shampoo my hair, and then I thought, why bother. John's going to be wearing a cape."

Days 6 & 7

Cleaning the basement Saturday afternoon, I moved a pile of kids' Halloween costumes and heard, "I'm Superman. Up, up, and away!" Hey, that's my line.

I quickly found the source--a child's battery-enabled talking Superman breastplate--and realized I had a new piece of attire for the day. A cape and a talking breastplate ... man, life's good!

I wore the combination all afternoon, tapping the device to activate the voice when I felt particularly super. Linda would roll her eyes or shoot me a look indicating she felt like tapping me upside my head.

I heard a knock at the door and figured it was one of the neighborhood kids. I was eager to show off my super outfit to someone who'd certainly appreciate it. So I was a little surprised when I opened the door to see an adult in a suit. He shot a confused look at my cape and breastplate and then said his name, followed by, "And I'm running for mayor."

I quickly took his material, thanked him, and closed the door. "What questions did you ask him?" Linda asked me later. "Did you tell him anything?" Nope. My only regret was that I forgot to tap my breastplate. What could he have possibly said in reply to "I'm Superman. Up, up, and away!"

The breastplate started getting uncomfortable so I had to stop wearing it by dinnertime. It's almost as if it wasn't designed to be worn by an adult.

By late Sunday, my $3 cape was showing that it wasn't meant to be worn by an adult all week either. The cape's ends were frayed and I'd already almost tripped myself on one of the loose strings.

In the pantheon of caped superheroes, I'm afraid I'm not up to Superman standards. My calf muscle strain, my crutches, the fact that I kept closing the car door on my cape, and almost tripping over it as well, unfortunately throws me into sidekick status.

I'd like to think I'm better than Underdog and Count Chocula, but much worse than Superman, Batman, and Captain Marvel. Hmmm, I was eager to be a superhero, and seemed up to the job, but wasn't a star. If you recall, the Wonder Twins had a sidekick, a caped monkey who kept tripping on his own tail. I think that'd be me: I'm Gleek!

No Chips, No Soda

Day 1

For most 40-somethings, giving up soda and chips for a week isn't exactly like giving up a kidney. Not so for me. As one friend said when I told her of my plans, "What are you going to eat for breakfast?"

That's a very good question. To the horror of my wife and several of our friends, I regularly indulge in nacho chips and Coke for breakfast. My 7-year-old son Daniel has even caught me doing it, which may not be great parenting but doesn't make me Alec Baldwin bad.

Here's how I look at it: you only get three meals a day, so why not eat three meals you really enjoy? I skip the Bland Flakes cereal and opt for gooey Colby Jack cheese nachos with olives and Coke. Maybe it's the olives that make my breakfast sound strange.

I'll clearly have to alter my menu selections this week--which started at 3 a.m. Monday when Daniel heard a noise, woke up, and came to sleep in our bed. Which quickly became his bed. I was up for the day, and unfortunately realized mid-morning that my much-needed caffeine soda pick-me-up was now an outrageous six days away.

I don't drink coffee, tea, espresso, Jolt, or anything else that approximates the sweet goodness of Coke. And what can I say about the wonder of chips? I eat them all hours of the day, sometimes just one or two for a quick salt fix. Great, now I've just given myself a craving for them.

Lay's, Ruffles, Herr's, Fritos, Pringles--I even like store brands. I have an appreciation for the salty uniqueness of each. If I were in a contest, blindfolded, and had to pick which chip is which, I'd win every time. (Anyone know of a contest like that I could enter?)

As for now, my first chip-and-soda-free day went smoothly except for one challenge by the town's soccer-loving, Chelsea Football Club-supporting contingent (population: 4). At a Labor Day outing, I was eating french fries, which my friend Phil believed count as chips. Others with too much time on their hands piped up in agreement.

In England, maybe, I replied, but not in America. Fries are fries, chips are chips, and never shall the two meet--except on my plate at breakfast next Monday.

Days 2 & 3

Tuesday I experienced a first in my soda-drinking history: I had to give away two perfectly good two-liter bottles of Coke. The poor guys were victims of my over-planning for our Labor Day party. Both had been refrigerated and opened so their freshness lifespan wouldn't make it til next Monday. One was still three-quarters full, the other half-full. So much promise.

But I found a good home for them, a serious Coke-drinking family; my friends even enjoy drinking the good stuff as late as 9 o'clock at night. The two little guys will be missed, and it definitely hurt me more than it hurt them.

The good news post-party: I have bags and bags of chips left over and they'll be plenty fresh when my week is up. The only problem is the over-crowding in my chip storage area (doesn't everyone have such a thing?). I already had a few half-opened bags when I started the week. I'm trying to stay away from the area--too much temptation--but the call of two new bags of salty, crunchy Tostitos Scoops is Metallica loud.

I've increased my intake of peanuts and water to attempt to satisfy my mid-day cravings, but that's like substituting salt-free Baked Lay's chips for Pringles. Who wants healthy, tasteless potato chips? I bet the same people who came up with turkey bacon and tofu burgers are behind baked chips.

Speaking of Pringles, I noticed karma is working against me this week. I happened to watch the Travel Channel's Man v. Food Wednesday--it seemed appropriate for my own challenge, and also my friends Tim and Coleen rave about it.

Host Adam Richman is on a quest to find the best iconic eateries and food challenges across America. I know this because that's the exact copy from the Travel Channel's Man v. Food website--where a Pringles-red ad touts the new Pringles Super Stack. I kid you not. Now, a travel website could feature ads covering a wide range of cities, countries, and continents. But noooo, it had to be a Pringles ad. With 100 chips. I counted each one. Very, very slowly.

Since Richman was in Chicago battling deep-dish pizza, he inspired my lunch-time selection: a small, extra-cheese pizza. And I'll have plenty leftover for breakfast Thursday morning.

Day 4

To promote a Super Bowl-related contest Thursday, Madison Avenue was renamed Doritos Drive for a day. It's been a tough week without caffeine and chips, so I'm not sure if I dreamed that or if USA Today is just messing with me.

I'm tired of drinking only water, so I added some alternatives. I understand why Coke gets a bad rap for all of the sugar it contains, but the Wawa Lemonade and V8 V-Fusion I drank Thursday weren't any better. Though without touching kiwi or spinach, I managed two full servings of fruits and vegetables with the V8 juice --and that's a typical week's worth for me.

Eight ounces of Coke contains 27 grams of sugar (I checked the label of one of the two bottles waiting patiently for me to crack open Monday). V-Fusion Acai Mixed Berry Juice contains 26 grams and Wawa's Lemonade contains 31 grams. See, I tell myself because clearly I'm having lack-of-caffeine-induced hallucinations, drinking Coke is good for me. Oh, you're right, John. Thank you, John.

Next up: It'll rain salty chips on Fritos Friday. At least that's what USA Today's weather forecast predicts in my happy hallucinogenic state.

Day 5

When something's forbidden, you want it even more. Adam and Eve lost paradise for a lousy fruit--what would they have given up for Pringles and Coke?

I'm considering my own rationalizations as I stand in the Wawa snack aisle Friday. I'm craving and caving as I ogle rows and rows of Ruffles and Fritos. "How you doin'?" I ask them with a raised eyebrow. The lady at the end of the aisle looks up and steps away.

Then I see the Cheetos bag. Cheetos ain't cheating, I think. I grab a bag to make sure it doesn't say "chips" anywhere, and find only the words, "Cheese flavored snacks."

I eat a good portion of the bag on the ride home and for another ten minutes after I get there. Ahhh, the delicious taste of Ferrous Sulfate, Thiamin Mononitrate, and Riboflavin.

Day 6

I have Sinatra's "My Way" in my head at the moment: "And now/the end is near..." I'm determined to finish my first flawless week--I definitely had a few slip-ups in past weeks--but those around me aren't making it easy.

My wife Linda inadvertently became my own personal Eve mid-day Saturday when I went to put the lawn mower in our car's trunk. I opened the trunk and discovered a goldmine, much like Vincent Vega when he opens Marcellus Wallace's briefcase in Pulp Fiction.

There sat a secret stash of five bags of chips--three potato chips, two tortilla chips--and four two-liter bottles of Coke. What are you doing to me, I asked her. "I couldn't pass them up--they were on sale. I was trying to hide them from you."

Considering she'd gone shopping the day before, her "hiding place" lasted less than eight waking hours. She needs treasure-hiding lessons from leprechauns.

One big day left: the opening Sunday of the Eagles' season at a friend's house. There'll be more chips surrounding me than a Vegas poker dealer. The end is so, so near...

Day 7

Kids are mean. Especially when they take after their parents.

My 7-year-old son Daniel enjoyed taunting me with potato chips Sunday while we watched the Eagles game at a friend's house. "Here, Dad, have a chip," he said, pushing the chip to my tightly closed but quivering lips. That kid is so grounded once he knows what grounded means.

However, despite my son's abuse, as well as bowls and bowls of chips--and French onion dip!!!--I passed my final test with flying colors. I went the whole week soda- and chip-free, and even found some soda alternatives somewhat enjoyable.

The Wawa lemonade and V8 V-Fusion approximated the sugary goodness of Coke. I also drank enough water during the week that I feared a camel hump would form on my back.

In honor of my first 100% successful week, I celebrated with a Monday 9:15 a.m. breakfast of nothing but the best: nacho chips and cheese, olives, and Coke. It's good to be back to (my version of) normal.

Refer to Myself in the Third Person

I'm revisiting my old entries until I start my new daily approach. While I used to come up with ideas for an entire week, I'm now taking things a fun day at a time. I pity my small town and the things they'll see me do.

Day 1

Think of Elmo. ("Elmo likes to play. Hee, hee hee.") Think of Hall of Famer Rickey Henderson. ("Rickey's the best.") Think of Bo Jackson ("Bo knows baseball.") Now think how annoying John will be to others after a week of referring to himself only in the third person.

John can hardly wait.

My friend Phil gets credit for coming up with the idea during a brainstorming session a week ago. John loved the idea but quickly saw a huge dilemma: "I'm really going to have to think before I say anything," I said.

"Yeah, I know that's going to be a big problem for you," Phil observed dryly.

Actually, John has been looking forward to this week ever since. Not so for John's wife Linda, who responded to John's morning greeting with, "Oh no, is that starting today?"

John's good start aside, John has not done well in Day 1, though Linda has tried to help. On occasion, she spoke in third person too, as a gentle reminder--or as evil payback. John's not sure which at this point.

John's biggest problem: John can't get used to not saying "I." John apparently says it alot. Geez, does that mean John has a bigger ego than Rickey Henderson?

However, there is one unexpected perk: John is suddenly the star of lots of songs he sings in the car since the "I"-word can't be used. John noticed this first while singing along to Bob Seger's "Turn the Page": "Here John is/On the road again./There John is/Up on the stage./Here John goes/Playing the star again./Here John goes./Here John goes...."

Here John goes indeed.

Day 2
Needed to take a couple new approaches on Day 2. Trying to talk in sentences without subjects. Also speaking in clipped sentences. John sounds like caveman while trying to avoid the "I"-word. Good for John, bad for everyone else.

John's also working on talking to himself in third person more often so it comes naturally when talking to others. Little worried that someone speaking in the third-person to myself may make the village idiot. Or is John already?

A "kindly" neighbor jokingly suggested John deposit money into a coin jar each time John says the "I"-word. The neighbor mentioned it within earshot of Linda, who plans to start the coin jar tomorrow. She expects it to result in a nice pile of change, good for maybe a dinner out, or possibly a two-week vacation to Maui. Well, at least that's one less neighbor to invite to future neighborhood parties.

Went to meet Daniel's teacher and see his first-grade classroom before school starts tomorrow. Good thing John didn't know many of the other parents, so not talking didn't seem anti-social. However, it was painful seeing the two parents John knew from Daniel's class last year. Hard to listen to someone while voice in head is screaming, "Don't say I. Don't say I!!!!"

Oh, John could have explained what John was doing. John's absolutely sure they'd have understood, because referring to yourself in third person is what all normal adults do during the course of a regular week.

Day 3

It's the first day of school, so Caitlin and Daniel aren't around, Linda's working, the house is quiet, and John's talking to himself like he's Rain Man. John's an excellent driver. Excellent driver. Ten minutes to Wapner. Five minutes to Wapner.

Actually, John's more like Tom Hanks in "Cast Away," but instead of talking to Wilson the volleyball, John's talking to George in the money jar. I'm penalizing myself a dollar for each "I"-word and there's a growing collection of Georges in the jar--dollar bills and quarters.

But John's getting better at keeping more Georges from the jar. Of course, when no one's around, it's easy to say John didn't say the "I"-word.

But John's playing this game the way John plays golf: poorly but fairly. That's why in the jar there are more Georges than at a Foreman family reunion. But that's it, Georges in the jar. I'm Washing-done! Did you hear what I said, old man?

Just added two more. And realized John talks trash worse than the Pope.

John has got to get out the house and start the hunt for his sanity. Man, John's going to be one scary old dude when John retires and has too much time on his hands. George just nodded in agreement.

Days 4 & 5

Learned a good lesson from a trip to get a haircut: For the rest of the week, John needs to talk like he's in a barber shop. Slooooowly. Let the pauses in conversations drag out longer than a Pavarotti note. No rush to talk means no Georges in the jar.

The only problem with the plan: phone calls. Wait more than an instant and people on the other end think you've been sucked into a black hole. "Hello? Did I lose you?"

John figured out a way around the silence. "Did you just grunt?" Yes, yes I did. John discovered grunts, "Hmm-mmms" and "Oooohhh" are great ways to break the phone silence without breaking the bank.

That's something Phil noticed soon after calling to taunt John. (The call cost $4 in "I-word' fines and Phil and John agreed that it's a good thing our monthly poker game wasn't this week or John's mistakes would foot the bill for a week in Vegas.)

"I can hear how hard it is for you to figure out what to say," Phil said.

"Mmm-hmmm," John mmm-hmmmed.

The caveman dialogue wouldn't work with one call John had to make. A contact for a potential job e-mailed that John should call him to talk about opportunities. John considered temporarily giving up his week's mission, until he remembered a snippet of a John Belushi's motivational speech in Animal House: "Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?"

No! Holding the receiver, John dialed. It rang. And rang and rang and rang. John caught a break--he could leave a message and not have to trip himself up with a conversation! Never been so happy not to talk to someone John really needed to talk to.

Day 6

With another member of the Speech Police (Caitlin) hanging on my every word Saturday, the George Jar runneth over. So this is what it takes to get kids to listen to you?

Caitlin figured the cash in the George Jar would be her inheritance at week's end. She caught every mistake--eagerly--and, like Linda earlier in the week, even tried to trap me. As for Linda, the Speech Police Commissioner, today she learned the truth of Mark Twain's words: "Never argue with a fool, onlookers may not be able to tell the difference."

The two of us were having a minor disagreement when John replied, "John knows that. John's not an idiot." John laughed at how his own words failed to support his point.

Later, John was getting ready to read a book to Daniel at bedtime when he discovered the overwhelming vanity of Little Critter. Readers with kids, especially boys, may know Little Critter as Mercer Mayer's furry creation, a happy little creature with friends like Gator, Tiger, and Bun Bun.

But John's challenge this week allowed John to see Little Critter for what he really is--an out-of-control egomaniac. John counted 29 "I-words" in a 15-page book. Even Trump doesn't refer to himself that often.

John let Daniel read the story and John went to bed with a little more than 24 hours left until John will be able to talk normally. And people can go back to not listening to John.

Day 7

Sundays provide the ultimate ego buzzkill. There's no "I" in "church" or anyone of the words one uses in church. John would guess amens and alleluias combined outnumber the "I-word" 20 to 1, so that made for an easy hour.

John mowed the lawn and did other yardwork in the afternoon, but he can't say what Apple-created music-listening device he wore while doing it. Let's just say it wasn't the Amen-pod.

The rest of the day was largely "I-word"-free as Linda and John prepped for a Labor Day party, and the George Jar, sitting on the kitchen table, flirted shamelessly with John throughout the day. Sad, desperate little thing. The jar, not John.

That's why it's easy for John to end the relationship with the George Jar. With an additional four dollars added to it today, the George Jar finished with a grand total of $49. Not enough for a Hawaiian getaway, but enough to offset the Labor Day luau.

And it also gives John the chance to imitate Donald Trump, America's reigning "I" guy. To all of the members of John's personal Speech Police, John says, "You're fired!"

No Car

Day 1

This week, I'm turning back the clock more than 100 years in one way: I'm not going to drive or ride in a car all week. I'm going to try to go about my days as if I had a car, and then figure how to get where I need to be. Already I know I'll have to bike about four miles to a dentist appointment on Thursday. Ahhh, the lucky hygienist who gets to be in a closed room with me after a sweaty bike ride!

A first observation: riding uphill in a car is vastly under-appreciated. As I biked two miles to the pool today, I quickly realized the ride is steeper than it seems behind the wheel. Plus, my car's air conditioning was replaced by the summer's 90-degree heat, a trade-off worse than Manhattan for trinkets.

My neighbor Kristen laughed as I rode up the driveway flopping sweat like a guilty man on the witness stand, so I told her my plans for the week. "Looks like you won't be going anywhere too far this week."

Hmmm, a challenge. I only logged about four miles on the bike today, so maybe I should shoot to double it each day. Actually, now that I'm allowed to do math after last week, I quickly realize that might be dumber than a Prince Valiant haircut. I'd have to ride 256 miles on Sunday, which is a measly 240 miles longer than any bike ride in my life.

Day 2

I'm fortunate to live within easy walking distance of suppliers of all my major food groups: 2 pizza shops, a Wawa, 2 restaurants, and an ice cream shop. So, for those worried, yes, I'll be able to maintain my college kid's diet of pizza, hoagies, hamburgers, and ice cream this week.

I took a leisurely walk this morning to the CVS a quarter-mile away and, now that I'm not behind the wheel of a car, I got to thinking about how many different vehicles I've driven. My aunt's motorboat, a stand-up Jet Ski, a sit-down Wave Runner, a moving van, a landscaper's truck, nine different cars owned by me or my family--and the kicker, a Jack & Jill ice cream truck.

I worked parts of two summers during college as the ice cream man, essentially summer's Santa. For a college student, the pay was great; after covering the daily truck rental and the wholesale cost of the goods, I made from $100 to $150 a day.

The more you sold, the higher percentage of sales you'd keep, so it paid to hustle and not eat your profits. You try ignoring the sweet sounds of Chipwiches and Choco Tacos calling out to you as the mid-day sun beats down. More often than not, I heeded their call, and so a lifetime love affair began.

Because time was my money as an ice cream man, I wasn't the most patient driver on the highway between points A and B. Which is how I came to realize how much fun people have laughing, pointing, and taunting an ice cream man who gets pulled over by the cops for speeding.

I'm sure I shocked more than a few kids who saw the ice cream man in trouble with the law that day. How does a parent reply if a kid questions that? "Don't worry, dear, I'm sure the ice cream man's not going to jail. The nice policeman probably just really wanted a Mickey Mouse bar."

It was even weirder to have to walk to the window to accept my ticket from the cop as if he were buying ice cream. I was tempted to bribe him with a Choco Taco--really, these things had that kind of mind-altering power.

Now, whenever I see an ice cream man--I think one built a McMansion because of his success at the nearby soccer field--I wish there was a sign I could flash like bikers do when they pass on the road. You know, the low wave. I think the ice cream man's signal would be a sly smile and a whispered, "Ka-Ching!"

Days 3 & 4

In my eagerness to take to the streets on my new ride (my bike), I overdid things a little and wound up getting re-acquainted with Skelaxin and Aleve. They sound like great characters for my son's burgeoning Space Police Lego collection, but are actually wonders of modern medicine. I needed Skelaxin (muscle reliever) and Aleve (pain reliever) because my back went out (old man disease).

I think it started Monday night when I got a call to help a couple move a bunch of items to their new home. I biked a mile over, worked, then biked back. Tuesday night I biked a mile the other direction to help another couple carry their Shaq-sized elliptical machine into the house, up the winding steps, and into the bedroom. Carrying that thing around the house is a harder workout than anyone will get on that elliptical machine.

Wednesday morning, I was doing the Back Walk, a move familiar to 114-year-old men or anyone who's ever thrown out their back. Your back is straight, your knees are bent, angled slightly so you're bow-legged, your hand is on your back, and your face is in a grimace while you try to move one of your feet. Repeat for the other foot. It's now five minutes later and you've gone a total of three feet.

Unfortunately, my wrenched back meant I had to break my No-Car rule for the first time. I planned to bike to my dentist's appointment three miles away Thursday, but I'm in worse shape than Quasimodo. So I took the car, rediscovered air conditioning, and vowed to throw my bike in the Delaware River as soon as I could lift something heavier than my foot.

My punishment for my transgression came immediately: I needed three fillings, leading to 45 minutes of work on my mouth. Of course, it wasn't painful because they numbed my whole lower jaw.

The problem arrived when I was ready to leave and my chin and tongue were number than Iditarod competitors. And I hadn't eaten lunch before the appointment, after which my doctor told me not to eat anything until the numbness subsides--for fear of biting off my tongue.

Now I'm hungry, can't feel my tongue, my chin feelsth like it'sth made of Play-Doh, and asth you can guessth by my sthpelling, I talk like Cthindy Brady in the famousth "Baby Talk" Brady Bunch episthode. Mean ol' Buddy Hinton.

Day 5

I'm thinking about the Amish today, though I'm certain they're not thinking about me. As part of their beliefs, the Amish don't ride in motor vehicles. Some Amish also practice "shunning," avoiding members who don't follow the religion appropriately.

If I were Amish, I'd be their Keith Richards this week. I'd be the poster boy for shunning, the person Amish mothers use to scare their children by telling stories of my misbehaving. That's because Friday, I did it again--I rode in a car. But I can explain, which is shorthand for, "I've got a good rationalization I'd like to sell you!"

I needed to help my wife Linda, who'd gone to the doctor's office but forgot her health insurance card. My back is slightly better, so I guess I could have rode the five miles on my bike. But it'd have taken 25 minutes. And Linda sounded like she was in a hurry. And it looked like it might rain. And it's kind-of uphill on the way there, and it's still pretty humid out. And....

Anyway, I drove my mother-in-law's car; hey, might as well make her complicit in my failure.

So I wonder, can you talk your way out of a shunning? "Ye faithful brethren, shun me not for my motorized ways. For I have seeneth the light--it was the headlight from an oncoming car--and have seeneth the error of mine ways. Though thou really do maketh good time in a car."

Days 6 & 7

The weekend was easier to get by without a ride, perhaps because with more people around, there was less isolation. Stay-at-home moms sometimes must feel stuck in their homes during the week, which I guess would explain why they make 47-minute phone calls to ask each other what they're doing.

I was doing basic housework: mowing the lawn, cleaning up the backyard, doing a load of laundry, essentially anything to keep the keys from my hands in my final hours. Which only made me recall when I was close to turning 16 and couldn't wait to drive.

Back then, you could take the written exam before turning 16 and, once you passed, your learner's permit allowed you to practice driving as long as you were with a licensed driver. Once you turned 16, you could take the driving test whenever you wanted.

My November birthday made me one of the oldest kids in my grade, so I'd be among the first to be able to drive as a sophomore. I had a chance to be cooler than the Fonz. (Only the magic of TV can make a 4-foot-7 guy named Henry Winkler seem ultra-cool.)

The only thing stopping me was me. I failed the written test. I blamed it on nerves, or maybe I rushed things, or perhaps I could have studied the booklet a little more. My real problem had been telling everyone I was taking the test, and then having to show up at school the next day. I went from Fonz to Urkel in no time.

So I regrouped, passed the test on my second try, and counted the days until I turned 16. The inside word was that you shouldn't take the test too close to your birthday because the tester will think you're over-eager. You should wait a few weeks at least. So I waited all the way until the day after my birthday.

Then I failed. Having learned nothing from my first failure, I again told my friends that I'd be taking the test. I had a feeling some people I knew were betting against me, since they suddenly were sporting Members Only jackets in multiple colors.

When I told them I failed, my friends looked at me as if I were wearing a diaper. There's really no good comeback to, "You failed again?"

Eventually I passed. I even taught my daughter to drive last year--and she passed both tests on her first try. I thought about buying my own Members Only jacket to celebrate. Or maybe a Tears For Fears CD.

Speaking of passing and failing, I'd give myself a C for my week without a car. To be perfect, I'd have needed a little luck and much more dedication to taking long bike rides. For now, I've spared my bike a Delaware River dunking and instead shoved it to the back of the shed. Do I need a little break from my bike? Correctamundo!