When the cop asked if I knew English I knew I was getting a ticket or rethinking ipecac and blood capsules

As with any father, my fathers advice is subjective and sometimes liable to end you, well not you, me, in jail. My dad advocates Marxism and the picketing of businesses. He feels tipping was conceived by capitalists and as a hobby goes to churches of differing religious denominations to debate their version of the gospel.

Not surprisingly, it was my dad who introduced me to the common disdain people feel towards cops. He says some cops are corrupt, savage and in some instances murderers while in most cases they're just individuals working one of societies dirtier jobs. I asked him if any cops are like the cops in the show CHIPS or the Police Academy series and he said he strongly doubted it. I asked what I should do if ever I was pulled over. My dad said regardless of the infraction, always be respectful and courteous. He said an inordinate amount of "sirs" works wonders on cops accustomed to meeting an ordinarily abrasive driver anticipating a traffic citation.

I got my first ticket while doing 92 MPH in a 65 while en route to a baptism in Flagstaff. To be honest, I don't know why I was speeding up North to see my niece dunked in water, but I was. It was me, a copy of Let It Be on CD, which happens to be the greatest album the Replacements would ever record, and 270 miles of open road. I was in the middle of an air drum solo when I looked up to see a highway patrol vehicle following me and the officer seemed quite upset. I immediately pulled over and waited for the cop to come up to my window. It was my first time dealing with the police and I didn't really know what to expect. Do they taser first, then ask questions? What's the go to method of deterrence, mace or nightstick? The cop got to my truck and I just looked at him. To be honest dear reader, I really was scared. I thought he was going to beat the crap outta me. Ridiculous? Yeah, but it's not improbable. It's not like YouTube is filled with tasering reenactments much like they reenact the Delaware crossing in grade school.

So we both just looked at each other for a few moments. He then took out his nightstick and began gently rapping the window with it. I took this as a sign to roll the window down, which I did immediately. He then asks me a question that usually ends with a deportation, "Do you know English son?" I in fact did know English and told him so. He then asks for my ID, where I'm heading and why I'm speeding? Hoping the cop is a staunch Catholic, I immediately tell him I'm heading to a baptism. He then produces a clip board with paper work for me to sign, then tells me to step out of the vehicle. And this is where the way that we, that being you and I reader, interact with police officers differs dramatically.

When I've given the cop as many sirs, no sirs, thank you sirs, may I have another sirs, or yes I call my mother regularly sirs, and it's abundantly clear I'm getting a ticket, then I revert back to the 4th grade and proceed to ask the cop any ridiculous question my wild little brain can conjure up. This usually, not always but more often than not, leads to more questioning on the cops part. Questions that are a cops natural reaction to my questions. Samples: What drug is a straight ticket to jail? What's the highest number of bodies you've found in a trunk? Let's say my friend is holding, am I getting a ticket? If I had to be shot, which gun would I want to be shot with? And in the instance where I was rear ended and an overly inquisitive cop stuck his head in through the window of my truck, I sensed another "what kind of drug are you running" inquisition brewing. So as a preemptive measure I blurted out "I don't have any drugs". That cop didn't respond well to that. My sister dated a cop for awhile and I went hog wild on that guy with the questions. He eventually had to ask me if I had any warrants which I was proud to say I didn't.

My buddy Chris has figurative balls that are substantially larger than mine when it comes to dealing with the police. He has been roughed up, or some would say man handled by the police, but I'd have to say he had it coming on most situations. He had the gall to call a bike cop a pussy after the bike cop ticketed him for running a yellow light. Normally calling a cop a pussy earns you fleeting fame on YouTube starring in your own tasering video, but for some reason the cop let Chris go. Then again, this is the same police department that pulled Chris over nearly pickled twice, and let him go both times.

On a side note: I had an idea on how to get out of tickets that I ran by my Serbian friend Cocho, who didn't hesitate to tell me that I'd get arrested if I tried. Basically, first I get pulled over. Before the cop gets to my vehicle I take a swig of ipecac, which is a fast acting vomitive. in my mind, the serving and protecting part of the officers personality is going to overwhelm the ticket and harass portion and he's going to become concerned about my general well being and see to it that I get home safely. Which is more or less the same train of thought with the blood capsules. I figured if I popped one and made it seem as though I was experiencing a real gusher of a nose bleed, the officer would take pity on me and send me on my way. Cocho the Serbian pointed out that if the cop was to determine that my "blood" was corn syrup based that I'd be in a real world of hurt. He said I could take comfort in knowing that in his country I'd probably lose a finger for a stunt like that.

There's a point coming pilgrim, so here it is. People fear the police and I can't argue that they haven't given me reasons not to fear them. But I have no qualms about asking a cop wherever, whenever anything that crosses my mind and neither should you. I was dressed up as a storm trooper when I saw a cop shortly after I got a ticket earlier this year. I walk over to the cop, remove my helmet and proceed to tell him about my bullshit ticket. He said seeing me without my helmet was "fucking up the illusion for him." The last point is this: That whole adage my pops fed me about being nice to the cops to get out of a ticket? Pure bullshit. I put the spit shine on a cops ass every time and I'm 6 tickets for 6 pullovers. I'll find Jimmy Hoffa's bones and the chupacabra before I find a cop that responds well to my outgoing flurry of sirs. But remember kids, Bobby Fuller said I fought the law and the law won right before Dr. Dre, Easy-E and Ice Cube said fuck the police.
Love yer law abiding pal, Luke

The GOP took my baby away or how Conservative Talk Radio kidnapped my friend

Solid, steadfast friendship is a funny, elusive thing. To make it through the perpetual changes of life and still retain a few solid friends, thats remarkable. I equate most of life's struggles to a war on what ever the case may be. To me, a declared solidarity to someone seems like a fair bet to ensure that you're coming out intact. If it's your spouse then you're declaring war on the general bullshit life presents be it In-laws, bills, etc., but if it's your friend, and i mean true blue friend, then you're essentially life partners without the protests and demonizing.

Admittedly, there's a lot of shape shifting and principle shuffling to be done as the years pass, and you lose some folks along
the way. Such is life, you accept these things as they present themselves and keep marching on. But some folks are easier to let go of then others. I had this buddy we're going to call Ted Nugent, who I used to pal around with back in High School. He was the yin to my yang, the chocolate in my pudding, the Abbot to my Costello (which ever one was more rotund would be Ted Nugent) or the Boss Hog to my Roscoe. We were more or less inseparable throughout the years and saw each other through many hallmark moments of our adolescence like my offering up my bedroom to Ted Nugent while I was at school so he could lose his virginity to the girl that worked the popcorn machine at the second run movie theater he was a door man at. Or when Ted Nugent witnessed my other best friend perform amateur Rhinoplasty on me by uppercutting me, thereby breaking my nose.

After high school is when things got weird between Ted Nugent and I. Ted Nugent fell in with a different crowd. A crowd that preyed upon his frustrations and discontentment. No, not the Crips. No not even a biker gang, though I think the sole reason a biker gang wouldn't take Ted Nugent was because he had difficulties with math and if the staple crop of the American biker is or was crystal meth and the selling of it their main form of income, one would hope you'd have your sales right when a man named Cobra is asking for his money. No, my dear friend Ted Nugent started running with the conservative talk radio crowd. At first he started off easy with Tom Leykis, who is sort of like the gateway drug to the more debilitating heroin that is Michael Savage. According to Ted Nugent, Leykis' modus operandi is that you should only have to take a girl to Sizzler to get to "happy town".Ted Nugent quickly moved on to Michael Savage, and therein lies the sole reason for the demise of our relationship. Our irreconcilable difference, if you will.

I'm a fairly passive, easy going guy who is extraordinarily difficult to piss off. But Ted Nugent took to reminding me of my "liberal agenda" every time I'd see him and eventually I had to illustrate a point for him. If there is an agenda, which I wasn't made aware of if such an agenda does exist, then I'm too lazy to follow it. I went to an Anti-Bush rally once, but only because it was hosted by a magazine i wrote for and I wanted to see the former singer of the Dead Kennedy's speak. I might vote regularly, but I don't put that much stock into politics anymore so to say I adhere to anyone's agenda would be off base at best. Though I'm committed to the agenda of a guy that makes pizza in Phoenix as his pizza might actually contain trace amounts of heroin, its that good.

As Ted Nugent delved deeper and deeper into the rhetoric of conservative radio, hanging out with him became a test of one's mental fortitude and ability to ignore comments like "When are you gonna knock Obama's cock outta yer mouth?" You know, one's memory starts to wane as the years mount, but I'd surely remember fellating the presidential wang. I would. And I'd want a ribbon, or plaque for doing it along with a large sum of money. Something I could retire with. And it's not simply a matter of differing politics. I support whatever you're into, really I do. Who you rally for means zero to me. If you're a Munchkin and you're pissed off at how the Wicked Witch is running Oz into the yellow brick covered ground, I'm more than happy if you and a horde of equally disgruntled knee high reachers, along with the Lollipop Guild protest and vote for better living conditions. Just don't preach if you're not preaching to the choir.

As a side note, I should mention something that Ted Nugent does when he's trying to belittle you. He starts to say in a roundabout way that you're not the smartest guy around, but completely fucks things up in the process. Sample: You're not the sharpest bulb in the box. It's hilarious and innocent and I love it every time he says it. I have decided that only on Ted Nugent's death bed will I explain to him that spoons and lightbulbs aren't meant to be smart just like knives aren't intended to be bright.

And so it is with dear Ted Nugent in mind that I ask for Hannity, O'Reily, Savage, Leykis and their ilk to not necessarily return Ted Nugent to his old state. The newer version of Ted Nugent,Ted Nugent 2.0, at the very least doesn't leave his porn out for the world to see. (I didn't think the porn industry could top the industry standard of 3 x's, you know XXX. That pretty much spells out the plot, the subplot and overall intention of the film for you. But some innovative, ground breaking cinematic visionary saw a threshold of x's that was meant to be broken and thus released a film whose title was proceeded by no less than 6 X's. I saw this film haphazardly left in the middle of Ted Nugent's room, picked up the tape and asked Ted Nugent if he thought the films ending left room for a sequel. ) No, I just ask the who's who of conservative radio to instill a sense of acceptance of others in Ted Nugent as to make him more tolerable and less abrasive. Ted Nugent's friendship is worth dealing with all those extra X's.

Prince says if the elevator tries to bring you down, well, go crazy or Things to fear more than political landscape change

With the election having passed, emotions on both ends of the political spectrum have been stirred and you may find yourself in a state of elation or dejection, depending on your placement on the political radio dial. You might be thinking that darker days lie ahead, and dearest cowboys and cowgirls, they might. You might be thinking that all your pothead friends that tell you a comet is going to strike Earth in 2012 and there ain't a goddamn thing Ben Affleck or Bruce Willis can do about it and you might as well max out your credit cards on lap dances and fur coats. But when you think about it, there are more pressing issues. Here's a users guide to issues more pertinent than individuals that appreciate Dennis Miller being elected.

1. Creed/Nickelback still retain a loyal fan base. Sweet Jesus, how is this possible? Messianic posturing on both parts aside, theirs is the music of the tin eared. When I hear their music, I feel like they've had their way with my ear holes and if you swabbed my ears they'd smell like the DNA of the lead singer of Creed.

2. Weight gain. I love pizza about as much as I love wearing old pairs of pants. Brie cheese is just as great, but brie cheese might be made from angel tears and heroin for its the perfect balance of heavenly and evil. It's definitely up there in the things that can help you lose sight of your junk while in an upright position.

3. Get A Life still isn't, and might never be released on DVD. In the late 80's, early nineties, Fox had a show that was based around a guy named Chris Elliot whose only aspiration in life was to be a newspaper boy. Fox didn't get it, viewers didn't get it, so it was cancelled. The shows premise is eerily reminiscent of the directionlessness experienced by many the 30 something, with an REM theme song no less.

4. Colonoscopies. You will get one one day, friendo. I'm a 2 time colonoscopy vet, compadre, and they're not that bad. Not as enjoyable as, say, soft serve ice cream or peeing outside, but its not the adulthood equivalent of a trip to the dentist that it's made out to be. Plus, they give you wallet sizes afterwards and Grandmas everywhere are a big fan of the wallet sized photo.

5. Going Crazy. I'm not talking about the "let's kick off our purple high heels, should the elevator try to bring us down" kind of crazy wee little one Prince sang about. I'm talking about dementia. My grandmother lived with it and I decided that Grams has officially checked out mentally when she emphatically insisted that I was an astronaut. I couldn't argue with her on that one. If it had been a janitor or short order cook, I'd have corrected her. But I liked the idea of me landing, or not landing depending on who you talk to, on the moon. But nonetheless, crazy could be on life's menu for some of us. With that in mind, I stopped using deodorant that contains aluminum. The problem with this is you only find these types of deodorant at places where people that normally eschew societal norms like masking funkiness shop (i.e. Whole Foods or Trader Joe's ). So its not at all surprising that you find that when you use their deodorant, you begin to smell like them. Fact of the matter is, while I'm minimizing my aluminum intake, I smell like a Phish fan.

6. Gay people still can't marry. You could argue this point, but I have trouble accepting that an army of KD Lang fans and men who can pinpoint with undeniable accuracy where the watershed moments lie in Madonna's career (I'm going with Justify My Love and Ray Of Light) threaten the sanctity of marriage. They can't threaten an institution whose sanctity was compromised a long time ago, I'd say sometime in the 80's when divorces really started to pick up steam in this country. The sentiments that marriage is based upon are sacred, or should be, but the actual legal process is anything but. And for what its worth, gay marriages might have better foundations than their straight counterparts as when you're denied something for so long and finally receive it, you seem more apt to take better care of it.

7. You're going to lose your edge. You will. I have. And a younger person will be the first one to point it out to you. I was playing the Beatles at a party and a young girl referred to it as "her Dad's music". I wanted to offer a hipster rebuttal, but i realized "Holy shit Luke, you're turning into a middle aged man. When do I start buying Don Henley Cd's"? In spite of that, I run all the time and listen to the Butthole Surfers despite the new sensation I'm experiencing in my left knee I've named "future knee surgery".

8. Back Hair. Most will dodge this bodily stigma of a bullet. Some like my buddy Brian, who possesses a mean swath of thick back hair, won't. His words: It's not the back hair that bothers me, it's the stigma attached to it. Uhm, yeah. It's one of many middle fingers life likes to extend to men as they age.

9. Paranoia while smoking weed. I used to be a gold medal winning weed smoker, till I started experiencing a certain level of paranoia reserved for short wave radio listeners and conspiracy theorists. And I loved smoking too. I really did. You know the wheels in your brain? Well mine are spun by gerbils on meth. Factor in paranoia and I could convince myself that a tactical team composed of highly trained girl scouts, former girl friends and Navy Seals were waiting outside my buddy's house to bust the door in, turn down our Afghan Whigs and interrogate us. What would they get us to admit to? I guess I could cop to an unshakable caffeine addiction.

10. Dane Cook will increase in popularity. There's a Billy Ran Cyrus element of magic to Dane Cook's career as he's insanely popular yet no one I know bought one of the millions of Cd's this guy, like Mr. Achy Breaky, has sold. A lot of America's tastes are formed around a type of laziness similar to lying on your side and waiting for an apple to roll into it. It is what it is. Still, Cook and Carrot Top could tour under the "Two Servings Of Awful" banner, and sell out shows from coast to coast. And so it goes.

Yer Pal, LMF
P.S.: Purple Rain beats out Lets Go Crazy every time.

Searching for the skull ring and losing one's religion

You know the once ubiquitous REM song "losing my religion" isn't religiously based at all? "Losing My Religion" is southern slang for going crazy, or losing one's senses. I was raised Catholic, or at least there was a respectable attempt, albeit a failed one, at raising me to be Catholic. I can pinpoint when I decided that the Catholic religion was a Costco sized load of horse shit, and I was all of nine years old.

It was the summer of 1989 and I was spending my summer vacation in Flagstaff with my dad Charlie. Charlie, as wonderful a man as he may be, is also a staunch Catholic who abides by all its archaic, sprit depleting rituals and routines. One of the more preposterous routines Catholics entertain is the act of entering the confessional. This is where you go after you have committed an act deemed sinful by the church, or the throbbing sense of guilt the church has instilled in you, and you enter a small, low lit room to tell a Price Is Right Fan/AARP cardholder that you "done fucked up". Let's say you tell the person on the other side of the room that you really love Slayer (and lets be honest, who doesn't)? But Slayer promotes pure evil and the raining of blood (not necessarily bad things) and you know you shouldn't be allowing your soul to be sullied by the likes of Slayer. Gramps, not listening at all but instead contemplating Andy Griffith's career, knows nothing about Slayer and just tells you to go home and do an arbitrary number of prayers to cleanse your soul after listening to Slayer.

I suppose you could argue that some adults could use a moral compass and perhaps the church provides that, but in 1989 in was 9 years old. And there I was entering the confessional to tell Father Matlock Fan that I had....Well damn, I hadn't really done anything. I swore a lot when at least a miles distance from my mothers puritan ears. I had watched the Revenge Of The Nerds multiple times with my brother, but only because he insisted, dare I say demanded, multiple viewings as he seemed to really enjoy scenes with gratuitous shots of gratuitous 1980s pubic hair (i.e., big bushes) and the panty raids. These scenes instinctively led me to cover my eyes because unlike my brothers roaring hormones, mine were still lying dormant and naked women were still strictly filed under "gross". But I figured I should mention that movie and my dropping of copious amounts of F-Bombs to Father "Cocoon" Extra. He mumbled something about this many Hail Mary's and that many Our Fathers, I gave him the thumbs up and walked out of the confessional.

My father noted that my confessional time clocked in at less that 2 minutes. I explained to him that I didn't really have much to fess up to, so it was more of a drive thru f-bomb thing, and less of a murder/cannibalism sit down and fess up to a whole lot thing. He said he knew why I rushed through confessional, and it's because of that damned ring.....Ah yes, the ring. My sister was dating a guy that dressed like a biker, only like many guys that dress like bikers, didn't have a motorcycle, a job and was probably incarcerated at some point. Carey the Faux-Biker was no different. He was nice enough to me though. Nice enough to give me a ring that no 9 year old should have been walking around with on his or her hand. It had all the adornments a biker could ask for in their jewelry: spikes, kaiser helmet, skull. And I really loved the ring as I knew no biker gang would ever have me, not even to run their bake sale. Yes as much as I loved the ring, I had misplaced it somewhere in my Dad's enormous Station Wagon. So I had to locate my ring as it was as close as I would come to being a threatening, Hog riding, Motorhead listening biker, which is a phase substantially worse than your gothic or new wave haircut phase.

But yes, Charlie was right. My mind was not on my salvation, but fixated on that ring and how badly I wanted to wear it into my 4th grade class to lessen the amount of times I was referred to as "Lukey Dukey". So not being the type of Catholic to allow half-hearted confessionals, Charlie told me to "get my ass back in there". This is where my bull shit detector sailed into the red. I was cashed out as far as sins to divulge were concerned and I was being sent back into to tell Father Matlock Fan a fresh batch of indiscretions? To do this, I'd have to make things up as I really was a good kid and didn't do too many bad things. I could own up to the JFK assassination, expound at great length on how much I love all of those records Ozzy did with Black Sabbath and try in vain to convince a man of the cloth that if he gave War Pigs a chance, he might see its an anti-war song, which is something his man Jesus could get behind.

Instead, I just went into the confessional and remembered that my sisters had sent me to the store to get candy bars and soda, only to short change me. Lest I return home missing something my sisters had asked for, I decided to steal a candy bar. I mentioned that to the priest, who recognized my voice and asked "back so soon?" Seeing how I was repeat offender, he upped the number of Hail Mary's and Our Fathers and told me to "be good out there". I said "I will, uhm, Father". It was the last time I was in a confessional and one of the last times I was in a Catholic church. I could be wrong, but take your God of choice and ask them if they give a good God damn, no pun intended, whether or not I watched the Revenge of the Nerds, or dropped the F-Bomb? Ok, I know, the Baby Ruth. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry for that one., but not the others. But you factor in the irrelevance in what I had done, and then my having to fess up to said god's representative in a room slightly larger than a closet and it starts to seem utterly ridiculous.

After that I stopped buying into Catholicism and started to rethink spirituality along with organized religions. I know you're looking for a morale of this story, dear readers, so lets see....Uhm, well, first off, if you're going to get into a fight that could result in a nights stay in jail, wear a biker ring as whoever gets hit by one of those things is definitely calling into work the next day. Also, if you're going to sin, and tell a man of the cloth about it afterwards, sin big. I'm not saying rob a bank, just go hog wild without committing murder or federal offenses. And lastly, know that while it is a wonderful film, Revenge of The Nerds is not worth eternal damnation. Congregation, please rise.....

Bridging the gap between kleptomania and vengeful baking

Upon entering my junior year in high school I thought that I should begin familiarizing myself with the inner workings of an automobile to better prepare myself for adulthood. I enrolled in Auto 101 as my knowledge of an automobile was non existent and I wanted to start with the basics such as an oil or tire change. What I got instead was enrolled in Auto 103, solely by human error, one of which no one at Western High School seemed all that eager to correct. I went to my counselor who was a burned out hippy who met my demand to be placed in an entry level class with the memorable line of "What do I look like, the appropriate class fairy?" My friend Dominic convinced me to stay in the class and that it'd be an "easy A dude". I didn't get an A, or a B, or a C or even a D in that class. I got an F. And apparently the F stood for fag, which is what I was referred to by numerous people in that class. Or some bastardization of my last name, something along the lines of Fretecinni, or Lucobuttafuco. Either way, it was a soul sucking experience that, for me, clarified why kids enter schools with assault rifles. Not that I was handy with a rifle. I wouldn't even feel comfortable cleaning a gun. But I could see why and how kids get to that stage.

Around this time, I had become quite the accomplished baker and shoplifter. Most people can only manage to excel at one or the other. Both taking a certain amount of finesse, skill and outright love for the craft. I'd bake to release steam after getting home from another day of spiritual gang rape at my high school. My focus was on cookies, with a minor in assorted cakes. I'd shoplift mostly at convenience stores, primarily gum, mints and magazines. I knew guys that did beer runs which wasn't my forte at all. If I was going to shoplift, it was with the intent to make my breath smell better, not get sloshed.

After an intense period of hazing at the hands of a few of my classmates, I went home and began to plot my revenge and the exacting of it. While I furiously rolled another batch of cookie dough into a dozen balls per cookie sheet, I experienced an epiphany: What if i bridged the gap between my two favorite extracurricular activities, shoplifting and baking and poisoned the the entire class? Well, ok, not poison, that's crazy talk. I was thinking more along the lines of baking (there's one skill) several dozens of cookies with industrial amounts of of Ex-Lax (shoplifted, of course, there's the other skill).

Not wanting to enter any prolonged period of incarceration, or compromise my ability to become a shriner when I got older, I worried about the legality of feeding an unsuspecting class of assholes cookies that would cleanse them of just about everything but their liver and soul. I reckoned the one to ask about such matters would be my Mom (I never said I was the sharpest kid). It went more or less like this: Me: Mom, lets say someone slips an entire class tainted cookies. What kind of time is that kid looking at? Mom: Luke, you will go to prison. Do you know what happens to people like you in prison? And I did. Yeah they come out with sweet tattoos and and big and buff, but its the showers and shiv's that concern me. Not to be deterred though, I went ahead with Operation: Auto Shop Colon Blow.

I baked the high powered cookies and brought them into auto shop. The other students saw them and started asking me for a cookie, some of them double fisting the cookies. You'd think it was strange for a guy to walk into an auto shop with several dozens of cookies, but seeing how the other elective I took was Home Economics, it made a great deal of sense. I have to admit that I felt bad when the innocent bystanders and the instructor took cookies, but in situations like these they're referred to as collateral damage and I wasn't in the position to single out those who could and couldn't partake of my delicious cookies. A few buddies in class knew about what I was doing, as did some of my teachers. I had teachers write in my yearbook that I should avoid feeding the general public in the future.

Looking back, do I feel bad? I suppose so. Did Auto Shop 103 have it coming as a whole? No, but a few did. I dunno, whats the worst that happened? I know a few of them didn't come to school for a few days. And a few of the main offenders found out about what I did, and thought it was hilarious. I'm just thankful I wasn't caught. And for both my pacifism and lingering love for baking. They both have served me well.

Making enemies without really trying: A Guide to Halloween Candy

Once upon a time I was a kid who really really loved Halloween, possibly more than Christmas. Essentially, its the only day of the year you get to knock on someone's door, let alone a whole neighborhood's worth of doors, while dressed up like a werewolf and expect,no demand, they give you something for your effort in interrupting their dinner or viewing of American Idol. As we get older we reevaluate our willingness to do the things we'd otherwise dive head first into as younger versions of our older selves. I myself have thought about whether I'd spend an afternoon and on into the late evening methodically knocking on every door in the 89110 zip code of less than fabulous East Las Vegas all in the name of going home with a pillow case filled with the stuff that ensured my dentist would remain gainfully employed through my teenage years. And sadly, I have to say that the notion of doing all that walking for a bag of Smarties and the red headed step child of all Halloween candy, the orange or black "peanut butter" flavored candy, the true calling card candy of the tight wad, really just doesn't make sense to me anymore. Candy is to kids as prunes and fiber and the Price is Right is to the elderly. Very demographically oriented, which makes total sense. To that end, in anticipation of your Halloween candy purchases, I'd like to assist you in ensuring you make the right decision.

1. Chocolate: Nothing says big spender like a sports car in the drive way and a bowl full of chocolate of varying brands. On the occasion I'd stumble across a house where they were giving out full candy bars. It's amazing what a fifty cent candy bar means to a little kid, and I always assumed these types of people were loaded. The thought of changing costumes to return for multiple bars always crossed my mind. Remember: Chocolate is a win win. Unless its the retarded younger sister of chocolate which goes by the name of....

2. Tootsie (anything, roll, pop, etc..)
Another preferred tightwad staple, these candies tell the sugar to step aside and take the heavy lifting of dental destruction on as a labour of love as they rip out your fillings while confusing your tongue with what initially tastes like chocolate, only a much lesser version. Chocolate is Van Halen with David Lee Roth. Tootsie Rolls are Van Halen with Sammy Hagar or that guy that sang for Extreme.

3. Fruit
I know at some point in the early 80's the candy companies spread an urban legend that people were sticking razor blades in apples. Needless to say, no one gave our fruit or let their friends take it. The average kid is going to wait till you close your door and do something ornery with the fruit, unless its me and the fruit in question is a pomegranate and then I'd do nothing but savour it as pomegranates are both expensive and delicious. But most kids are taking that apple and tossing it in your yard, at your dog, or stuffing it in your mailbox. Skip the fruit.

4. Orange and Black Peanut Butter Candies
Giving these to kids is the equivalent of paying them minimum wage for their trick or treating efforts. It's quite possibly the closest you can come to a candy equivalent of $4.25 an hour. I worked for $4.25 an hour, and it felt a lot like what I experienced when I'd dump out my candy at the end of a long evening of intense trick or treating only to find 2 pounds of these sons-a-bitches hiding at the bottom of my sack. My mom always brings up the kids in Africa and how they'd eat anything. They might pass on these as they try to proximate the flavor of peanut butter, with the texture of wet concrete.

5. Leaving a bowl of candy on the porch with a "take one" sign next to it.
Are you serious? This happened to me plenty of times and I'd like to say I did the good Samaritan thing which is to take a single pack of "Bottlecaps", then leave the rest on the doorstep. Kids are by nature, not thoughtful. And I certainly wasn't either, so I'd lift the bowl to my pillowcase and I'd proceed to dump the entire contents of the bowl in. The entire premise aims to take kids on their honor, and if the entire night is built on getting yours while dressed like a ninja, well then, I just did what I was supposed to do.

So that's a rough look at the candy spectrum, from crap to quality. There's some perennial favorites (Nerds! Pop Rocks, Blow Pop's) and others that somehow fought the good fight and managed to find their way into my pillowcase year after year (Smarties, Dum Dum's, Brachs Butterscotch candies, the preferred candy of eighty year old men). I'd like to thank all of those who have given and given well when it comes to your candy of choice. It's the chocolate that makes the blisters and blindly knocking on your neighbors door dressed as a 4 foot Frankenstein worth the effort. And for those about to trick or treat, I salute you.

The Start Chopping T-Shirt or Metallica Box Set, there can be only one

For Valentine's Day 1994, I bought my then girlfriend April Apple (honest to goodness) a Dinosaur Jr. shirt depicting a man raising a meat cleaver that was dripping with blood. I had to go to a local record store to trade a Metallica box set for the shirt as I had no money, Valentine's Day was fast approaching and my only asset was a Metallica box set. So my mom drove me to Record City to get the shirt. I came out of the record shop, excitedly holding the shirt I knew was going to be the Valentine's Day gift that rendered chocolates, flowers and cliche ridden poems obsolete. Blood diamonds, or a seminal shoe gazer band's shirt? Ladies I know the answer.

I showed my mother the shirt and my mother, bless her heart, was always one to offer a blend of advice that straddled a line between your garden variety parental advice, and unfiltered questioning of my general mental state that landed somewhere in the vicinity of "are you fucking crazy" a few times. I did ask my mom how I'd go about joining the Black Panthers. I was genuinely interested in becoming one as I thought they had a respectable image while being fully capable of backhanding someone. I had never backhanded someone, nor worn a beret and I was fully interested in pursuing both interests. My mom's response? Are you fucking crazy?

So anyway, I showed my mother the shirt and her response was: "Are you really going to give that to your girlfriend? What kind of girl would want that shirt? And what happened to that man's head? And why is he holding a cleaver? Are you on drugs, Luke? My responses were: Yes I'm going to give this shirt to April, not that I'll ever see her without it or any other shirt on as April had taken a vow of celibacy which didn't sit well with my raging teenage hormones. As for the man's head or the cleaver, there's just no telling. And the drugs? I smoked a heroic amount of weed in the 9th grade, which was a substantial factor in my failed attempt at passing Algebra.

I gave April the shirt and she loved it. She gave me a Rage Against the Machine CD and I loved it as well. We dated for a few more months and then we broke up. Shortly after she began dating an eccentric skateboarder who later knocked her up while she was still in high school. Looking back, if my desire to get laid could have overcome my fear of breaking bones, or road rash requiring more than a band aid, I'd probably have been a decent skate boarder. But I wasn't. And those who were made out like rabbits. Moral of the story? I'm not sure. I suppose you could say that gifts (especially Valentine's Day gifts as the holiday is a farce no one with a set of testicles really fully endorses, they just play the game as it's the path of least resistance to seeing the woman or man of their choice in various states of undress) should be more about feeling and true sentiment and not monetary value. People lose sight of that as they age. See, I wasn't fucking crazy.