A miracle is, by definition, a very special thing. Whether the word is ascribed to the birth of a baby, the parting of the Red Sea, or a game winning 3-point shot at the buzzer that brings to an end to the deplorable savagery known as basketball, when something is genuinely described as miraculous you know to expect something wonderful.

Fish, my friends, are miraculous.

Their health benefits are many, but a cheap way of defending their honor. Rich in the good fats which keep us healthy, and poor in those that rob us of vigor, fish have innumerable benefits to either the modern lifestyle or the scrambling of the third world.

Flavorwise, I’ll admit fish is a complex mistress. An unsophisticated palate cannot always appreciate the individual tastes and scents that give fish its allure. I don’t feel indignation toward those who are unable to enjoy it; rather a sense of pity tinged with an obligation to try to show them another way. But those who despite my ministrations choose to overlook a slice of grilled salmon or broiled trout in favor of a mound of blasé mashed potatoes soaked with butter and clotted with salt find themselves at the business end of my disfavor.

However, the mark of a good meat is not merely its flavor. Texture plays a key role in the determination of an excellent piece of edible flesh. There, fish more than surpasses its land-based brethren. From the melt-in-your mouth flakiness of fried tilapia, to the delightfully soft but firm salmon sashimi, fish is a delight for more senses than merely taste and smell.

Relatively few foods can stake their claim as being mentioned in the Bible. Even fewer can claim to have been part of a genuine miracle. Fish, on the other hand, can claim both titles. When Jesus needed to feed the multitudes, He didn’t fry up a slew of goat. When the people, exhausted from having walked miles to hear the words of G-d directly from his lips, cried out for sustenance, He did not barbeque some beef or pork, or toss a salad brimming with the fruits of the ground.

No. He took the glorious fish from the hand of a boy, blessed it, and broke it. And it fed them all.

I’m a man of sometimes strong opinions, but I’m not altogether unreasonable. I recognize there are times and places when eating fish might be necessary. Times like day 19 after an oceanic shipwreck. Places like an underground bunker beneath the rubble of World War III.

But for everyone outside the plots of Waterworld and Mad Max, there is no reason to willingly eat these torpedo-shaped nausea makers. Fish oil may prevent heart disease and depression, but why torture yourself at the table when you can get the same benefit from a pill?

I know some people live where fish are the only real source of nutritious food. I feel awful for them, and I don’t wish to upset the precarious brainwashing they’ve had to put themselves through simply to survive. To those poor souls, I can send only my sympathy and a brochure for real estate in the American Southwest.

The rest of you are without excuse.

“You know what’s really good on fish?,” comedian Jim Gaffigan asks. “Anything that kills the taste of fish!” And it’s true! What’s the classic fish-eater’s claim? “Oh, it tastes just like chicken!” Even if this were true (it’s NOT), it wouldn’t help. Food, especially meat, should be appealing by itself! It shouldn’t have to rely on culinary subterfuge or taste deception, designed to hijack goodwill from a wholly unrelated meat to sneak its scaly flesh past our wise and knowing tongues. Food should stand on its own two feet!

But then, fish don’t have feet, do they? There you go.

You know what fish are good for? Metaphors. You can “flounder” or “flop around” like a “fish out of water.” You can “get a nibble” or “get off the hook,” then choose to “fish or cut bait.” You bemoan the “fish that got away” till you remember there are “plenty of fish in the sea.” You might be a “fisher of men” or you may “shoot fish in a barrel,” “teach a man to fish,” or go on a “fishing expedition” — but remember houseguests, “like fish, stink after three days.” Linguistically, fish do it all! Their contribution to our literary lexicon is unquestioned.

So let’s keep fish on our pages and off our plates.

I am very much not a father. I am very much not a female. But I do think it is somewhat possible that I might someday father a female and I can guarantee you no government is going to mandatorily vaccinate my adolescent daughter for any sort of sexually transmitted disease, such as the Human Papillomavirus.

The implication is disgusting. While the vaccine appears to be very effective, thorough and well-tested (albeit costly), and while I’m definitely not saying all Gardasil doses should be destroyed and the recipe burned, the notion that the government should go to
such brash, expensive, and heavy-handed means to “vaccinate” poor parenting is audacious, invasive and infuriating.

Currently only one state, Texas, has taken the steps to make such vaccinations mandatory. While the issues raised about Merck’s campaign donations to Gov. Rick Perry are tough to build an argument around, his use of an executive order in favor of legislation requiring all girls entering sixth grade to be vaccinated does show a feeling that public dialogue may not go his way. And when the Texan legislature overruled his order, it further showed that apprehension about such invasion is most certainly there.

I think a far better tack to take would be allowing some competition to ferment, to make HPV vaccines cheaper and more readily acceptable, perhaps even easier and less expensive than pap smears.

What is more, understanding the disease, the manner in which it’s spread and the way it affects the physiology and psychology of women is of far greater benefit to our society than allowing the government to come in and sweep the problem under the rug.

Issues as personal as sexuality and children should always be handled delicately and with broad dialogue — never with executive orders that imply an urgency that suspects parents don’t already worry enough. Offer the vaccines, sure. Mandate them?

Over my dead body.

This shouldn’t be a debate over the actual use of the HPV vaccine. Its spread might be linked to the grinning, busted-up specter of promiscuity enjoying belle-of-the-ball status throughout most of the western “romantic” world, but few would say nothing should be done to stop the single largest cause of cervical cancer. Instead, my focus is bringing the vaccine into the standard arsenal of vaccinations.

Should a child get a vaccine their parents don’t want? There’s a difference between “standard” and “mandatory” vaccination. Your child won’t be denied access to preschool because she wasn’t immunized against HPV. Then there’s Job’s position — it should be available on request, but not suggested as a matter of course. When was the last time your co-worker was out for a few weeks with a nasty case of measles, mumps, or polio? Never — because of the vaccines that have rendered most individuals immune to them. They don’t merely keep individuals from getting sick, but prevent disease from spreading throughout a population. Since HPV is often asymptomatic in men, this makes it more important for women to be immunized, as a matter of course if the parents do not object.

There are moral implications to women getting these vaccinations before puberty. But when you travel to the third world, you don’t start vaccinations when you’re hip-deep in mosquitos. You get the shots well before you need them, to develop a sufficient immune response. Vaccines are useless for someone already infected, so it’s best to give the shots when they have the best chance to be effective. Will it make the country more promiscuous? How could it get any worse? And how many kids know what MMR or DTaP (two current vaccines) stand for? All the kid has to know is she’s getting a shot to keep her from getting sick, and if she’s good, she’ll get a lollipop.

HPV has been strongly linked to cervical cancer; even in women who approach sex the right way, its widespread nature makes it a threat — from rape, a husband’s past, or infidelity. We owe it to ourselves and our children’s children to try to stop it.

The question of which platform is superior between PC and Macintosh is not a trivial matter. Thousands of lines of text in forums decry one, exalt the other, each citing a myriad of reasons their chosen platform is the best. Although the question of platformital superiority can be approached from a number of avenues, many of them are simply unimportant.

For example, one completely irrelevant way the platforms can be compared is the breadth of the software libraries available to each. What difference does it make that (as of press time) popular freeware/shareware website C-net.com listed a staggering 55,822 titles under “All Windows Software,” and just a paltry 4,603 listings for “All Mac Software”? What difference does it make that twelve times as many downloads were available on this popular and influential e-hemoth?

Another boneheaded way to compare operating systems is by looking at their popularity, relative to each other. Who on earth would think it relevant in any way to a real, honest debate about platforms that Apple had a paltry 2.4% of the market share in 2006 — in terms of real, worldwide shipments — versus a combined 50.6% for just the top 5 PC manufacturers? What do we care who the world trusts for its computing needs?

Likewise unimportant is the ability to customize your computer whenever you want. No one cares about upgrading a computer without replacing it, or performing system repairs on your own, or being taken seriously by friends, relatives, and co-workers.

No, the computer debate is about one thing — trust. Do you trust your children’s computing lives to a bunch of rag-tag, animating, photo-editing, long-haired, music-sharing hippie freaks?

Or do you trust the welcoming, all-encompassing embrace of Windows and its industrial brotherhood, the PC manufacturers?

PC. People Caring.

Failure reading drive C:
[A]bort, [I]gnore, [R]etry, or [F]ail?
r
Failure reading drive C:
[A]bort, [I]gnore, [R]etry, or [F]ail?
i
Failure reading drive C:
[A]bort, [I]gnore, [R]etry, or [F]ail?
a

Oh, hello there! I was just spending some time getting to know the zeroes and ones, first strung together in the 80s, that still form the foundation of the average Windows PC. While Microsoft prides itself on polishing its rubbish to a sheen gloss, mimicking the refined, elegant lines and textures of Mac OS X, what lies beneath is the same slathering of spaghetti code Bill Gates cooked up when Carter was in office.

Until recently, a head-to-head comparison of Mac to PC compared apples to oranges. But with Apple’s recent switch from IBM’s Power PC processors to Intel’s x86 architecture, direct comparisons can be made. Will I make them? No! I’m not a ‘Mac Evangelist.’ If you’re looking for one of those, check your local community college art department.

What I will tell you is this — Macs are more reliable because you have one source for a Mac: Apple. You can buy a Dell, an HP, an IBM, or you could build your own PC capable of running Windows. All those vendors and their configurations add lines of code to Windows’ OS, each zero and every one cutting into your performance. Apple has limited its hardware support to keep your Mac running smoothly every time you turn it on. And Mac OS X is based on the rock-solid UNIX operating system, so you’ll never have to see one of Bill Gates’ famous ‘Blue Screens of Death.’

Even if you ignore pro-Mac arguments like ease of use, lack of viruses, reliability, stability, power, and originality, you could still use Apple’s Boot Camp software, allowing you to run Windows on your Apple. Purchasing an Apple computer literally can give you the best of both worlds.

Now if you’ll excuse me…..

Failure reading drive C:
[A]bort, [I]gnore, [R]etry, or [F]ail?

Vickie Lynn Hogan. Norma Jean Dougherty. Two lovely young women. Two talented young women. But two beloved American icons? Not without a little something extra. A little something I like to call Vitamin B – Blonde!

Long before tragedy tore these blindingly brilliant bombshells from the frantic grasp of the collective adoration of their public, the common thread woven through the lives of Anna Nicole Smith and Marilyn Monroe was just that – commonality. But with a little luck, some old-fashioned gumption, and a bottle of peroxide, two legends were made, not born.

Is this only a statistical anomaly? Success based on hair color alone? One merely has to look at the culture beyond Hollywood to find the answer. Blonde hair is described as golden, historically a metal highly prized for its hue and sheen. Even the “cheapest” of artificially blonde hair is called platinum, a metal even more highly valued than gold. For third place in the Hair Olympics, blonde comes along yet again, with silver. The best a brunette can hope for is a little bit of red somewhere in her hair’s muddled tone, so she can settle for the ‘honor’ of “coppery” tresses.

Throughout history, blonde hair has been the most highly valued hair color. Evelyn de Morgan’s classic depiction of the legendary Helen of Troy does not find her lamenting her mousy, tangled locks. No, a veritable halo of spun sunlight cascades down her back. She even lifts a delicate handful of golden curls as if to say, “My sisters! This, this is the hair that launched a thousand ships!”

While it is true that natural blond hair is a natural rarity, that scarcity is part of its charm. After all, a young lady presented with a floral incarnation of her paramour’s affection might scoff if it takes the form of the common daisy. But a man who presents his beloved with an edelweiss plucked from a barren cliff face miles from civilization will find a much warmer reception. Scarcity is the mother of demand.

Much like a speech impediment, it can come from pure genetics, or it can come from a bottle. Only her stylist knows for sure. Either way, it’s indisputable: blondes have more fun.

When I first took this assignment, I didn’t stop to think about the potential pitfalls of making this argument: my blonde friends, the blondes I’ve dated (well, there’s only been one, but still), even my blonde sister. I’m sorry, ladies. You’re all beautiful, but I’m sticking to my guns.

I’m all about the brunettes. My first crush was a brunette, as was my first girlfriend. Any time I enter a situation that involves meeting new women, it is invariably a brunette that catches my eye.

The fact is, Tom is actually in danger of offending innumerably more women (as is to be expected). I don’t have any exact figures, but brunettes certainly outnumber blondes by a wide margin. Brunettes are akin to the largest high schools that dominate athletics because they have the widest talent pools from which to draw performers. You just have better odds of finding a gorgeous brunette — brown hair is the dominant trait. In addition, because dark hair is so common, you’re in no danger of finding one of those ladies who acts like she is better than you, simply because of the color of her hair.

I’m not alone in my preference. A recent national survey reveals that 75% of men would choose to marry a brunette, and 80% would rather bring a brunette home to meet dear old mom. Even more amazing, I didn’t just make up those stats.

A less skilled or inspired commentator might resort to a few blonde jokes, or cracks about their collective intelligence. I won’t stoop to that level, but I will say that I certainly find intelligence very attractive. Anyway, I change my light bulbs by myself.

Brunettes are natural, mysterious, and offer a wide array of cultural traits. But for all the wonderful things I could say, for me, the entire debate about the appeal of brunettes and blondes comes down to one simple quote:

“Every decade has an iconic blonde like Marilyn Monroe or Princess Diana, and right now I’m that icon.” — Paris Hilton

Felix, I am very, very disappointed in you. It seems like we’ve had this discussion over and over again, and you say you’re listening, but I’m just not seeing the changes in behavior that would show me you’re paying any attention at all.

Your father and I have discussed it, as well as your grandparents, nursery- school teacher, your therapist, my guru, and your father’s attorney, and we’ve come to the conclusion that the next step is going to have to be a spanking.

I hate to have to do this, and I’m so very sorry we’ve come to this point, but remember — this hurts me more than it hurts you.

No, no, there’s no use trying to convince me otherwise — I mean it, little mister. I’m telling you the truth. When I see my only son, my little prince, behaving the way you do, throwing Mr. Whiskers at your sister while she’s sleeping and hiding Mommy’s “special” pill bottle under the porcelain Buddha, well, it just breaks my heart, Felix. And it only makes it harder on me when I’m forced to punish you physically, because I’m your mommy, and that’s a really special thing, and a mommy doesn’t want to ever cause her little boy pain and, and —

Do you see this, Felix? Do you see what this is doing to your Mommy?

Oh sweet Krishna, I need a drink.

*sigh*

Where was I?

The pain! The pain, Felix, the pain I feel when you feel pain, or when I make you feel pain, well, that pain, it feels worse than any pain you feel at the same time. Because at that time, I feel both pains. Your pain *and* my pain.

It hurts me.

Inside.

Do you see?

Oh, forget it, just assume the position already.

Ouch! This really, really hurts! I mean, we both knew going into this that it wouldn’t be a walk in the park, but seriously! I’m sure you have the best motives, and I know you’re not enjoying the whole corporal punishment thing, but I honestly don’t think you understand how much this hurts!

What’s that you’ve got there, a willow switch? I didn’t even think they still MADE those! And have you been working out? That vacuuming/laundry gig you’ve got going must really work the shoulders and arms, because things are starting to get a little hazy.

Dude, are you winding up? You’re really getting the wrist into it, I can tell you’ve done this before.

Judging from the lack of obvious exertion, your cardio conditioning can’t be too shabby either. I’ve been considering going to a Capoeira class with a couple guys from playgroup, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to take myself seriously afterwards. I mean, dance-fighting? That scene’s a little too West Side Story for this cat — Great Caesar’s Ghost, that one really brought me back! I admire your technique, but no amount of psychic disappointment in my behavior or regret at the steps you’re taking to correct it can compare to the excruciating physical pain I’m experiencing.

It’s bad enough you had to give me this freaking name, now you rake me over the coals in the name of societal norming?

Could we possibly take a break? I could really use an ice-pack, or maybe a children’s aspirin? Heck, with the sound drubbing you’re doling out back there, I might even need something a little stronger! Bring on the extra- strength Tylenol, while I still have the muscle control to swallow it! What with the levels of agony you’re inflicting, I’m on the verge of unconsciousness. The room is spinning, and: what? You’re done? That was it? Well of all the wimpy — I mean, that was, bar none, the worst experience of my entire life! And I assure you, whatever I was supposed to be learning through this process, it’s all in there. Peace.

Discussing the superiority of one gender is like cleaning your bathroom floor with a cup of store brand bleach and a drinking straw. It’s dangerous, you leave with a bad taste in your mouth, and it takes a long time to do it right. But out of a sense of obligation to my worthy opponent and our reader, I’ll stick to only three important areas of life where girls “stick it to the man.”

Aesthetically speaking, womankind could not be further ahead of men. As car designers know, the human eye is naturally drawn to smooth lines rather than blocks and angles. Simply examine the contrasting silhouettes of a man and a woman. The inherent beauty of a cascading series of smooth lines and subtle curves? Or the clunky, utilitarian kludge of stark lines and sharp angles? And aesthetics go beyond mere looks. Think about the last time the passing effluvium of a passing stranger made you gag, then remember the gender of that person. Ignoring every sense but smell, would you rather be in an elevator with a man or a woman? An exhaustive staff poll revealed a near-unanimous preference for the woman. In terms of sheer aesthetics, the foundation of personal interaction, women take the cake every time.

Nature too seems to have an innate sense of the superiority of women. Were it not so, surely we would all start off as male from conception, but in fact, the opposite is true. Until testosterone has time to work its corruption on a developing fetus, we’re all ladies. In fact, science itself has come to the point where, if all men were to drop off the face of the earth, humanity would go on. The dizzying concept of human cloning is even now a realistic mode of procreation. The miracle within a miracle that makes cloning possible? A female. Nature and science themselves heap the lioness’ share of their acclaim at the feet of woman.

The societal aspects of female superiority are difficult to perceive on the surface. After all, the direct, visceral impact of women at the reins of power has only been felt in the last few generations, after centuries of seemingly trifling forays into improving society. The true power of women is that, though men comprise the vast majority of decision makers and power brokers, almost every advance has been designed to impress women. Without women, men would have no reason to earn a lot of money, fix up their house, wear clean clothes, or even stop living in caves. “Eh, I’d build a house, or at least put some skins on the floor, but the game is on!” Women civilize society in general; in areas of former East Germany, men outnumber women 100 to 80, so now the men devoid of a reason to raise themselves are reforming into a fascist political element akin to the infamous Nazi party. Left to their own devices, without the muses of civility, men devolve into shiftless, warmongering malcontents.

Despite my having held the Bweinh.com Frederick Nietzsche Chair of Misogyny since its inception in June 1996, I cannot argue with aesthetics, nature, or society. You go, girls.

Allow me to present to you two situations, both entirely probable:

Situation One

Meet Joe. He plays football. In the last game, Joe dropped the ball five feet from the touchdown line and lost the game.

Meet Bill. He’s Joe’s teammate. After the game Bill complained to several other players that he had told Coach from the beginning that Joe shouldn’t be allowed on the team because he wasn’t a good enough player. He completely blames Joe for the loss and makes a few comments about Joe’s mother to prove his point.

Situation Two

Meet Jill. She plays volleyball. In the last game, Jill made a bad serve, losing the championship game.

Meet Brenda. She’s Jill’s teammate. After the game Jill complained to several other players that she had told everyone that Jill never should have been on the team because she didn’t care enough about volleyball. She completely blames Jill for the loss, and
makes a few comments about the size of Jill’s thighs to prove her point. She also calls her a whore.

Let us examine these two entirely probable situations. What do you think will happen?

Joe will push by Bill in the locker room the next day. Bill will say, “Watch where you’re going, butterfingers!” To which Joe will reply, “You watch it!” And then he will commence pounding Bill’s face in with his fist.

There will be a scuffle, a little blood, and a visit to the principal’s office. They will be threatened with expulsion from the team, but it won’t really matter anyway because they already lost the championship. They will later laugh about their shared peril and high-five each other in the halls.

Jill will talk to her friends about what Brenda said, and say a few things herself. Soon there will be a rumor that Brenda is a drug pusher and that Jill is sleeping with the gym teacher. They will hate each other with venom and never cease thinking up vicious lies about each other to spread around.

Before their ten-year reunion, they will join dieting programs, trade in their beer-bellied husbands for pool boys and buy extravagant diamond rings, to prove to the other that they were not any of the things the other called them. They will speak politely with each other at the reunion, then turn around and tell their old friends that the other is a terrible word that would be a disgrace to print on Bweinh.com.

That is why boys are so much better than girls.

I still remember a time when nearly all restaurants went through the charade of designating separate “sections” for smoking, separated from nonsmokers by nothing more than the air the smoke wafted right through. I had more than a few meals ruined, so I can’t for a moment say I regret the move away from allowing smoking in certain public places. While I readily acknowledge my bias as a nonsmoker, I say bring on the bans.

I’m not suggesting banning smoking outright. I understand that for many this is about having the freedom to make personal lifestyle choices, no matter how unhealthy or ill-advised they may be. Most of us engage in activities that shorten our probable lifespan because they increase our enjoyment, convenience or manageability of life. We should be free to make these choices — but only insofar as they do not interfere with others’ rights.

Secondhand smoke was once considered little more than a distasteful annoyance, but there is now increasing evidence that it poses serious health risks to others. Exposure to secondhand smoke increases the likelihood of both lung cancer and heart disease, and children in particular are very susceptible to these effects. Estimates vary, but most studies attribute tens of thousands of deaths annually to secondhand smoke exposure. The bottom line is that the Surgeon General has determined there is no safe level of exposure to secondhand smoke.

Smokers have the right to make the choice for their bodies, but not the right to expose others to harm. As we learn more about the dangers of secondhand smoke and the ways we are exposed to it, we must be prepared to take the necessary measures to safeguard our general health. Prospective bans will not deprive anyone of anything necessary, or even beneficial. They will simply ensure that those who wish to destroy themselves do so without collateral damage.

Banning smoking in public, outdoor places doesn’t seem like a good idea.

I am not a smoker. I believe in the right to breathe relatively clean air, but I also believe in the right to pollute your personal air with cigars, cigarettes, or pipes to your heart’s content. At this point, in New York State, smoking is banned in government offices, restaurants, bars, and can be banned on private property, at the owner’s discretion. Take away sidewalks, streets and parks and what’s left? The home (depending on your lease) and the car. Until a mandate from the people makes tobacco illegal, it’s not prudent to force a large section of our population to have to act as if it was.

When making a decision with the stated intent of keeping people healthier, I find it easiest to think how it will affect the children. I close with an analysis of the most important situations where children would be harmed by banning public smoking.

Scenario I:
A frazzled single mother strives to keep food on the table and a roof over her child’s head. She has but two vices: her stories and the after-dinner pipe. She knows she shouldn’t smoke in her child’s home, but as an apartment- dweller, she has no yard or porch from whence to take her nicotine break. Does she risk a fine, or put her baby’s health in jeopardy?

Scenario II:
Drive past any elementary school in America, and you might see legions of educators wearing a path to the street corner judged far enough away from the school to allow unmolested smoking there. Take away this simple relief from the pressure of molding dozens of young minds, and what do you have? An army of angry middle-aged women who (without nicotine) can’t manage the stress of a 7-hour a day, 9-month a year vocation whose main requirement is outsmarting a fourth-grader. I don’t think that’s a situation anyone wants; keep the paddles, but let them have their sidewalk cigarettes.