Giant weiner penetrates house

Okay, so you're sitting in your lovely Racine, WI, home, swatting mosquitos and watching "Oprah," when -- blam! -- something crashes into your house. OMG, it's a vehicle and it's plunged halfway into that room downstairs. Huh. It's the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile.

Honey, call the TV stations!

Full story, with delightful photos, here.

Cutting costs

INTERNAL MEMO
To: Members of the Household
From: Chief Financial Officer

Nationwide, the economy’s in real trouble, and that’s reflected here at local headquarters. Costs are rising and income isn’t keeping up. High gasoline and food prices have taken their toll, and inflation is now spreading to other areas, such as tires and waistlines. It’s time to tighten our collective belts so we can survive these hard times without resorting to layoffs that could affect the whole family.

The following cost-cutting measures will be in force until further notice:

1) Out-of-control inflation at the supermarket means we must rely on simpler foods, such as those purchased at discount stores for less than a dollar. Think ramen noodles. Yum.

We’ll be looking for foods we can make from scratch. Yes, this is more time-consuming, but we’ll have plenty of time to cook now that we’ve canceled all fun activities. (See item 5).

We’ll also keep a lower inventory of food on hand. If you get hungry enough, maybe you’ll finally consume those canned goods that have sat in the back of the pantry since 1993.

2) Utility costs are on the rise, and we can all do our part by keeping lights turned off and using less air-conditioning. Sweating is good for you. And reading in low light builds up your eye muscles.

3) We’ll cut spending on extravagances such as new school clothes. You kids only want to wear your old, ratty clothes anyway, and now you’ll get that opportunity. If colors are faded or you’re tired of the patterns, we’ll dye all your clothes black and tell everyone you’re “Goth” or "emo.” You’ll have to act angry and/or sad all the time, but that shouldn’t be difficult now that we’re poor.

4) School supplies will be provided by household members who have access to corporate office-supply closets and who can exercise the venerated “five-finger discount.” Students should pay special attention to the combinations of nearby lockers.

5) Entertainment costs must be contained. Why pay full price for “The Dark Knight” when you can watch perfectly fine old movies such as “The Ghost and Mr. Chicken” on TV for free? Better yet, curl up with a book from the library.

Dining out is verboten, effective immediately. Public liquor consumption should be confined to “happy hour.” Private alcohol consumption may increase during these hard economic times, resulting in deferred costs, such as detox and/or rehab.

6) Houseplants cost water and time and provide little in return. The ingrates. Starting now, houseplants will gradually be replaced by herbs and other edible plants, such as wheat.

7) Lawn and garbage services will be suspended, replaced by the newest member of our household team, Sweetums the goat. I hope you all will join me in welcoming Sweetums aboard, but keep your distance because she bites.

8) Other so-called “pets” are put on notice that they need to start pulling their weight around here. Otherwise, they run the risk of becoming “lunch.”

9) Transportation costs simply must come down. Car trips will be restricted to those that are absolutely necessary. Household members who need additional travel should undertake it at their own expense. Or use alternative methods such as hitchhiking. This is why God gave you thumbs, people.

That is all for now. If the recession deepens, additional cutbacks may be required. But if we all pitch in and help contain costs, perhaps we won’t have to sell the children to a passing carnival.

Thank you.

Tied up on the phone

What follows is a recent conversation at our house.

Teen-aged son: “It’s not like you have to keep me on a leash!”
Mom: “What do you think that cell phone is?”
Dad (on the inside): “Oh, SNAP!”

While I have many misgivings about the proliferation of cell phones, I recognize that we parents have come to rely on them as electronic child monitors. Want to know what your teen is up to? Give him a call. The kid might lie or evade, but at least you’ll know he is still alive, probably safe, and at least sober enough to answer the phone. Also, you can listen for party noises in the background.

Thanks to a law that took effect last year, teens in California aren't allowed to use phones while driving. Older motorists can talk on cell phones only if they use hands-free devices. Instead of juggling a phone, a cup of coffee, a McBreakfast and a bottle of nail polish, motorists now juggle all those things and a wired-up earphone, too. Or, they use one of those Bluetooth devices that screw directly into the ear, which always remind me of The Borg, that humanoid/robotic species on “Star Trek: The Next Generation on Babylon 5 After Kirk Got So Fat.”

It would be safer if everyone simply stopped talking on the phone behind the wheel. Driving is tricky enough all by itself (especially in Redding, where the city motto should be: “We Will Pull Out Right in Front of You”). Phoning while driving is too complicated, especially for those of us who aren’t comfortable with new technology and mostly use our cells as pocket watches.

My wife got me one of the hands-free devices, but I haven’t learned how to use it yet. When my phone rings, I either let voicemail handle it or I pull over.

Better that I miss an important call than become one of those motorists who weave all over the road, randomly speeding up and slowing down, while trying to dial and talk and thumb-type text messages. I hate those drivers so much that I’ll endure all kinds of inconvenience to avoid joining their ranks.

With the new law in place, those motorists now have a degree of anonymity. Before, if I saw someone driving stupidly, I always got smug satisfaction in confirming that he had a phone to his ear.

“Aha,” I’d think. “Talking on his cell. I knew it!”

Now, I can’t tell unless I pass the motorist and see his lips moving. Even then, maybe he’s singing along with the radio. Maybe he’s talking to himself. Maybe I don’t want to honk at a person who’s ranting to himself like a madman, no matter how badly he’s driving. Maybe he’s packing a bazooka.

Whenever I’m in traffic with cell chatterers, I always wish my own phone had another feature: A “Star Trek”-style ray gun that could disable other vehicles. Not permanently. Just long enough to get those motorists off the road so they could finish their conversations and pay attention to their driving.

“Gentlemen,” I could say in my best Capt. Kirk voice, “set your phones on ‘stun.’”

Zap! More yakkers stranded beside the road. Bwahahahaha!

They’d have to call for tow trucks. Hands-free, of course.

Not fare

A wounded man hijacked a cab in a Boston suburb and used it to run down the man who'd allegedly shot him, police say.

Authorities say Marcel Laurol, 32, yanked the driver out of the cab, climbed behind the wheel and drove down the sidewalk to run over the 25-year-old man who'd shot him.

Extra points: Both men were expected to survive their injuries.

Double extra points: The two passengers in the taxi were unharmed.

Full story, including the long list of charges, here.

Doing the floorboard stomp

Parenting holds many thrills, chills and worries, but none as spectacularly terrifying as teaching a teen-ager to drive.

Our older son is driving now, and it's a regular carnival ride every time we take the minivan out of the garage. Abrupt starts and stops and sweeping turns, breath-taking braking and heart-pounding near-misses, and concrete curbs that seem to leap right out in front of us. And that's all before we leave our cul-de-sac.

I'm kidding. He's doing fine. My anxiety has nothing to do with reality. It's a pre-existing condition. I've always been a nervous passenger. Other drivers don't go quickly enough, they don't stop soon enough, and I'm pretty sure they're not paying enough attention. If I'm riding in your car, you'd better pray that the floorboards are solid, because I will be stomping that invisible brake. I can't help myself.

When in a moving vehicle, I prefer to be at the helm. Even on public transportation in unfamiliar cities, I'm always a little itchy about the driver. The airlines are lucky I don't know how to fly.

Giving the steering wheel to another driver causes me the same anxiety as handing over the TV remote control. Only worse, because misuse of the remote control isn't likely to result in death by fiery crash.

For all these reasons, I wasn't the one who taught our son to drive. I half-heartedly volunteered, but that made the rest of the family laugh until beverages spurted out their noses.

My wife taught him. She's patient and considerate and level-headed and calm, all the things I'm not. She's the one who took our son to parking lots and endured the gear-grinding and the whiplash accelerations and the shrieking stops. I stayed at home, watching sports on TV and chewing my fingernails down to the knuckles.

Our son also went through driver's ed in school and attended a six-hour driving course taught by a professional with nerves of steel.

By the time the boy and I started driving together, he already had his learner's permit and many hours of experience.

And he still scares the bejeebers out of me. I ride in the passenger seat, fingers dug into the upholstery, feet dancing, a frozen smile on my face, while we miss other cars by inches or drift too close to the shoulder or stop, stop, I said stop, right now. Whew.

I try not to distract him with too much coaching, try not to criticize unnecessarily, try not to imagine what it will be like to plunge across the median into that oncoming semi.

Just a few constructive comments, I tell myself. Only when absolutely needed. Only when it will help. After all, we're preparing him for the big driving test, the one where he'll get his full license and be allowed to drive all by himself.

I try to picture him driving without me in the car. He'll probably be better off.

(Editor's note: This column ran a few years ago. Our older son now zooms around town in his own car, and our younger son has his learner's permit and is practicing for his final test. My wife tells me he's doing well.)

Fast food

If you need proof that we're all too danged busy, consider this item from USA Today: This year, the average American will eat 32 restaurant-purchased meals in a car, up from 19 such meals in 1985.

When you consider that some Americans (like me) almost never eat in vehicles and that many don't even have cars, that works out to -- let's see, 32 meals into 52 weeks a year, carry the 2, minus Big Gulps, which aren't officially "food" -- to, um, one heckuva lot of meals on wheels.

I recently saw a fellow motorist who was weaving so much that I assumed he was drunk. As I nervously hurried past, I saw he was eating a big, drippy burger while also talking on his cell phone. Steering with his knees rather than miss a bite of burger or a juicy tidbit of telephone gossip. Both activities apparently were more important than the fact he was endangering lives. Did I mention this was on the freeway?

You who spend a lot of time commuting and/or eating in your vehicle probably are thinking about now: So what? We do what we have to do to make the most of every minute of every day. If it means dripping "special sauce" into our laps at 75 mph, then so be it.

Automakers strive to equip vehicles for full-speed dining. My minivan, the Soccer Mom Special, comes equipped with (and I'm not making this up) 13 cupholders. Thirteen. Since you can only fit seven people in this vehicle, the automaker apparently assumed that each passenger needs two drinks going at any given time. In which case, shouldn't the van also be equipped with a bathroom?

Creative auto engineers could come up with more ways to outfit our wheeled restaurants. They could:

--Add lap tables that fold out of the armrests, like the ones on airlines. Probably not safe in a crash, but tables would enable drivers to keep their hands free for driving, at least part of the time.

--Replace that "new car smell" with the aroma of stale French fries. Going to happen sooner or later. Might as well cut to the chase.

--Offer upholstery in colors that would hide anticipated spills: Hot Coffee, Old Ketchup, Dried Mustard, Radioactive Red Slurpee.

Fast food purveyors could help, too. How about packaging food in "feed bags" like horses use? Drivers could keep their hands on the wheel, while munching away at the food strapped to their heads.

More roadside cafes could offer "astronaut food," pureed items in plastic tubes. We could squeeze our meals into our mouths and skip all that inconvenient chewing.

Restaurants should also offer more food items "on a stick," so each motorist might have one hand free for steering. Burger on a stick. Chicken on a stick. Fish kebabs. Condiments could be in "dipping tubs" designed to fit in our many cupholders.

I'm sure creative food packagers are searching for such innovations. But, for my money, the best service concept could be summed up in one word:

Bibs.

Off road

Recent headlines about the horrors of rush-hour commuting were deeply satisfying to those of us who work in home offices.

According to a nationwide study by the Texas Transportation Institute, the average urban traveler was stuck in traffic jams for 46 hours in 2002, an increase of 187 percent over 1982. In some big cities, time lost to traffic tie-ups was much worse: 93 hours annually in Los Angeles, 73 hours in the San Francisco Bay area, 67 hours in Washington, D.C.

We work-at-home types hear about such wasted time (and expensive gasoline), and our well-considered, mature response is along the lines of: "Neener, neener, neener. Hahaha on you."

For most of us who work at home, the "commute" consists of stumbling down a hallway to the spare bedroom. We don't need a car; heck, we don't even need shoes.

(Now that my two sons get themselves to and from school, I sometimes go days at a time without driving at all. Or wearing shoes.)

One could contend that this is yet another argument in favor of the productivity of home offices, if we at-home workers made productive use of that time. However, "found" time is like "found" money. Easy come, easy go.

We're so busy congratulating ourselves on avoiding the commute, we fail to see that we waste many more hours every day than we would if we drove to real jobs where we had a boss breathing down our collective necks.

While the rest of you sit in traffic, listening to the radio and talking on your cellular phones and performing nostril maintenance, we housebound types are wasting time in much the same ways. Or worse.

Some examples:

--When I worked in a regular office, I almost never talked to my mother during working hours. Now, thanks to my flexible schedule and unlimited long-distance minutes, my mom and I talk all the time. (If I still commuted, these are conversations that undoubtedly would occur while I swerved through traffic. The world is a safer place.)

--We work-at-home types enjoy music while we're working, much as you do during your commute. But it's unlikely that you would use your driving hours to totally reorganize your CD collection, alphabetically, by artist.

--Some commuters work out their frustrations by cursing and screaming and making menacing gestures at their fellow motorists. For such venting, we who work at home have computers.

--Many commuters use their time in stalled traffic to snack. Not only can at-home workers eat all the livelong day, we can also take time to prepare elaborate dishes that can be devoured before the kids get home from school.

--You often see commuters grooming themselves in traffic. Work-at-home folks can spend unimpeded hours in front of the mirror, sighing heavily while examining wrinkles and gray hair and nostrils.

--If you're stuck in traffic, you can get temporarily distracted, but you can't really wander off from the task at hand. I sometimes find that I've wandered away from my home office to watch CNN or stare at passing clouds or gossip with my neighbors. Anything to keep from working.

As you can see, we don't really gain much time by not driving to work, despite our gloating. But working at home still beats commuting.

While we're wasting time, distracted and unproductive, we're not trying to simultaneously drive. Not much chance that we're going to have a wreck while padding to the spare bedroom. And there's a much lower incidence of road rage inside one's own home.

Neener, neener, neener.

Surviving driving vacations

If you want to experience true family togetherness, then pile the kids in the car and take a long driving vacation. You'll never feel closer, assuming you don't kill each other.

Spending time with your family -- cooped up in a car around the clock -- will remind you why you normally choose to hide at a job eight or 10 hours a day. By the time vacation's over, you'll be rested and ready to return to work -- anything to escape your kids' caterwauling and your spouse's annoying little habits. Plus, after spending the "college fund" on gas, food and lodging, you'll need to hurry back to work to raise some money.

Our family's last driving vacation was a few summers ago, before gas prices went through the roof. We toured Northern California, a truly inspiring land, from its redwood forests to its, um, other redwood forests. My wife and I, our two sons (then 15 and 12) and enough luggage to require sherpas all packed into a minivan and hit the Open Road. For a week. I'm happy to report that we all survived, physically intact, if emotionally frazzled, and ready to vacation together again real soon. Say, once they perfect private space travel.

It's easier to travel with the boys now than it was when they were little and demanding. Now that they're big and demanding, they can at least fend for themselves if they're, say, accidentally left behind in a redwood forest somewhere.

We vacationed with our boys when they were younger -- we've got photo albums to prove it -- but I seem to have blocked the experience from my memory banks. Harried parents know that certain memories (such as diapers) are erased from the mind as time passes. Which explains why couples have more than one child. For those of you out there traveling with kids still small enough to require diapers, all I can say is we'll remember you in our prayers.

The role of older kids on vacation is to appear bored. They're too jaded to appreciate redwood forests and other natural wonders, having seen better examples on TV. Museums make them yawn. Beaches are okay, but there's all that yucky sand everywhere.

The mantra of small children on vacation is the perennial favorite, "Are we there yet?" With teens, it's "Whatever."

This emphatic ennui grates on parents, especially if they're unable to block out that other sound in their heads, the steady ka-ching like a taxi meter, recording how much everything costs.
If we're going to spend this much, the thinking goes, then these kids will by golly be impressed and learn something and enjoy themselves, if we have to strangle them.

We stayed in hotels on our trip, spending the equivalent of two months' mortgage payments for seven nights in hotels. Our kids have reached that stage of maturity (and actual physical size) that we needed suites so everybody would have his own bed. I couldn't sleep for the ka-chinging in the background.

Yes, there are cheaper ways for families to travel. RVs, for example, or camping. But my idea of "roughing it" is four people sharing one bathroom. Trust me, this was rough enough.

But it was worth it. Really. We spent "quality time" together and we made some memories.

I can see myself years from now, when my kids bring their own families to visit:

"Hey, son, remember that vacation we took? Those big trees?"

And he'll roll his eyes and say, "Sure, Dad. Whatever."

The death of cool

As if looking in the mirror isn't evidence enough, here's another sign of encroaching middle age: The pledges made in our youth become as outdated as eight-track tapes.

We make many promises to ourselves when we're young. We'll never settle down. We'll never give up partying, dude. We'll never get fat. We'll never become couch potatoes or undergo plastic surgery or wear our pants pulled up to our armpits.

Aging subverts those promises. The demands of family and money and work, the incontrovertible proof of wrinkles and flab and gray hair, yank the rug out from under our youthful idealism. And we shrug wearily and trudge toward our ultimate reward, foolhardy pledges littering the road behind us.

When my wife and I decided to get married nearly 25 years ago, we agreed to three private vows beyond the usual "I do." These vows were aimed at making a state-sanctioned union more palatable to a couple of young hipsters. Here they are:

1. No children.

2. No mortgage.

3. No station wagon.

It's not that we looked down our noses at people who liked such things (though we secretly did). We were simply too cool to embrace the suburban, white-bread, gray-flannel-suit, Brady-Bunch, La-Z-Boy, generic-beer, early-to-bed values of previous generations.

Well. Our two sons are now in their late teens. We're in our third house and on our fifth mortgage, counting those all-important, lower-interest-rate refinancings. And, a few years ago, I gave up and bought a minivan.

OK, it's not exactly a station wagon. But it's the modern-day equivalent, close enough to draw sneers from passing youngsters who could never picture themselves tooling around in a vehicle with as much sex appeal as a refrigerator.

Minivans are for people who've given up any pretense of coolness in favor of practicality. For people who need legroom more than they need a hip image. For people who haul people.
In short, minivans are designed for parents.

Parents need reliable transportation, not something exotic that'll pass everything on the road except a repair shop. They need room for kids and pets and sports gear and groceries. They need rows of seats so children can be separated when they start poking each other.

Automobile manufacturers have designed minivans with all the bells-and-whistles demanded by harried parents. Cupholders and airbags. Lots of storage. Entertainment systems to distract the little ones in the back seats so they don't distract the driver.

Ours even has a fisheye mirror that gives the driver a view of the whole interior, so I could watch the kids and shout, "I saw that! Stop poking him!" while pretending to watch the road.

I must confess that I like the minivan. It's roomy, it's practical, it's easy to drive. I ride up high so I can see over sleek little sedans in traffic.

Not high enough, though. I can still see the other drivers, the young ones in the sleek little sedans, who snort at the sight of Mr. Soccer Mom in his Airport Shuttle.

I'm thinking about dressing up the van, giving it some little touch that shows I know I'm no longer cool. Something tongue-in-cheek, a wink to those who scorn fridges-on-wheels and the lifestyle they signify.

How about a vanity plate? Here's what it should say: "AMANA."

Driving impulse

This week's advice to young lawbreakers: If you're going to smoke pot and drink beer, then strip naked and have sex in your SUV, it's really better if the SUV's not moving at the time.

Extra points: The guy in the SUV is named "Van Hooser."

Windshield warriors

Many people have become so attached to their cell phones, they've become like gun owners -- you'll take their phones only when you pry them from their cold, dead hands.

Which, if they're using the phone while driving, is exactly what can happen.

Numerous studies have found that talking on a cell phone while behind the wheel is such a distraction, is so debilitating to attentiveness, the motorist might as well be driving drunk. All over the country, lawmakers are drafting bans on talking-on-the-phone-while-driving in an attempt to stem the rising tide of phone-related accidents.

(California's hands-free-phoning-only law takes effect July 1.)

Imagine my surprise then when, while thumbing through a business magazine, I saw this headline: "If You're a Windshield Warrior, Here's the Technology to Make Your Car Your Desk."
What followed was an article that described such hot new gizmos as hands-free cell phones, GPS navigation systems, wireless headphones, DVD players, satellite radio subscriptions and wireless Internet access. These technological wonders are described as "very cool new tools . . . to turn the cockpit of your car into a terrific office."

This makes as much sense as saying you can turn your office into a car. Or your airplane seat into a "flotation device."

Just when you thought it couldn't get any scarier on the roadways, here comes a whole new generation of motorist distractions. It's bad enough that other drivers are weaving all over the road, yakking with their friends and eating fast food while steering with their knees. Now we've got to worry that the guy in the speeding SUV next to us is reading his e-mail? Or, mapping out his next destination on a GPS locator? Or, God help us, watching "Mad Max" on his DVD?

Call me an old fogey (you wouldn't be the first; I've got teen-agers at home), but I remember when driving was considered a matter of complete concentration. Hands on the wheel at 10 and 2 o'clock, eyes on the road, mind on full alert. When you were driving, you weren't doing anything else.

Now, drivers are doing everything else, except watching where they're going. Which leaves the rest of us terrified, clutching the wheel in a death-grip while our fellow motorists drift from lane to lane.

You'll never catch me using a cell phone while driving. One, I don't feel competent enough as a driver or a cell phone user to do both at the same time. Two, I usually forget to take the phone with me so it languishes at home while I'm chugging around in my car. Three, I don't have so many friends or so much urgent business to conduct that I need to talk and drive at the same time. Phone calls can wait. I'm busy dodging the other gabbing motorists.

I'll never, ever, get those other technological toys to use in the car. It's just too dangerous. I love e-mail as much as the next fellow, but trying to manage it while behind the wheel could give a whole new meaning to the term "computer crash." A GPS locator? I'd rather be lost. Better to pull over and use a regular old road map. Or, (insert gasp of horror from male readership here) ask someone for directions.

But if you insist on using your car for an office, I have a suggestion. Instead of spending thousands of dollars on all these gimcracks, use the money to hire a chauffeur. Then you can sit in the back seat and work all you want while a professional handles the driving.

Hire a driver who can sing, and you won't even need the radio. Just make sure the chauffeur knows to hold it down when you're on the phone.

Mellow out, dog

For those of us who work alone, our pets serve as our co-workers, our confidants, our sounding boards. But it's a relationship that's often rife with misunderstanding and envy.

Spend much time around a dog, for example, and you might start coveting his lifestyle of ease and simple pleasures. Or, at least, his round-the-clock nap schedule.

But how do our pets see us? When I'm in my home office, with my dog Elvis lazing nearby, is he watching me work? Trying to understand what I'm doing sitting still all day, trapped indoors when it's beautiful outside?

What do our pets think when they see us yakking on the phone for hours? Doesn't a telephone receiver look a lot like a chew toy? Does your pet think you're intently talking to your toy all day? Is he waiting for you to set down the phone so he can take a turn chewing on it?

The psychology of home-office pets has been much on my mind lately because I've enjoyed more "quality time" than usual with Elvis. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I drove halfway across the country with Elvis in the back seat. If you haven't spent three days on the road with a 70-pound dog with halitosis, then, friends, you simply haven't lived.

There was much concern at our house in the days leading up to the trip. Elvis, we realized, almost never travels by car. He only takes a ride when he's going to the groomer or the veterinarian. Fortunately, dogs have short memories. Elvis always is happy to get in the car, even though he hates the usual destinations.

But now we were talking about him spending three days in the car, traveling through unfamiliar territory with its strange sights and foreign smells. How would he react? Would he think we were on our way to the vet? And, as the hours roll past, would he start worrying that such a long vet trip was a signal that he was seriously ill? If it's a ten-minute drive to get a rabies shot, then three days on the road must mean surgery at least, right? The last time he had surgery was when he was neutered. And that's enough to worry anybody.

To prepare Elvis for the trip, I took him on a few short rides around town. More importantly, I consulted with our vet, who had the perfect solution: Drug the dog.

Seems there are doggie sedatives that make car trips one long snooze for a pooch. Give three little pills to Elvis, the vet said, and he'd sleep all day, so groggy he could barely get out of the car at rest stops.

It didn't exactly work that way. Elvis, it turns out, can handle his drugs like an old hippie. The pills made him very relaxed, but not too sleepy. He spent the trip with his head resting in the back window, watching the landscape whiz past. An extremely mellow dog and an absolute pleasure to travel with, if you discount the halitosis problem.

By the end of the trip, I envied Elvis like never before. After three days, I was a jangled, road-weary human with aching muscles, a bad attitude and no appetite. Elvis, on the other hand, was a well-rested, happy dog, though he did seem to suffer from the "munchies."

The sedatives had one negative side effect: Elvis really liked them. Now, he wants to ride in the car all the damned time. Every time he hears the garage door roll up, he starts jonesing for doggie dope. Dude, let's go for a ride.

I drove him to the groomer the other day, and he seemed truly disappointed when our drug-free journey ended after only five minutes. Then he got a bath and a haircut without the benefit of sedatives. Bummer.

We'll get through this rehab period. Elvis eventually will forget those three glorious days of purple haze. And I'll find some way to make him that happy again.

Maybe I'll let him chew up the phone.

Pass the gas

With gasoline prices at record highs, a trip to the pumps can feel like a particularly efficient mugging. You stop at a gas station with an empty tank and leave with empty pockets.

Oil companies attribute higher prices to the war in Iraq and other overseas scares, but we consumers aren't so easily fooled. With Texas oilmen running the federal government, it's a pretty safe bet that domestic price-gouging will continue to be "overlooked."

Oilmen hope higher fuel prices will make military action in the Middle East and drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge seem like good ideas to Americans who hear their life savings ding-ding into their gas tanks. We'll bomb our way out of high prices, or we'll plunder the Earth in search of more fuel. And caribou don't get to vote, except in Florida.

All the protest marches and angry e-mails in the world probably can't stop our nation's drive to slake its oil-thirst, or the ever-rising prices. So what's a consumer to do? Use less gasoline.

There's never been a better time, for instance, to work at home. Cut the daily commute out of your life, and you consume less gas. The money you save can be used for purchases for your home office, such as snack food.

Not everyone can work at home, of course. And, even people who don't commute to a job find they must drive sometimes. Children need rides. Face-to-face appointments must be kept. It's easier to ferry groceries home in a car, particularly if you're transporting large amounts of snack food.

But there are ways to cut our fuel consumption. Here are some to consider:

--Try human power. Walking, for example. Bicycles, skates, scooters, skateboards. Not only will you save on gas, but you'll get some exercise. Better to burn those snack-food calories than to burn gasoline.

--Public transportation can be more relaxing than a grueling commute. If you don't have to pay attention to the road, you can spend time reading or napping or exchanging ideas with your fellow passengers. These discussions can be lively. On a bus, you often hear passengers communicating about topics such as personal hygiene, DUI histories, psychotropic medications or each other's parentage.

--Try hitchhiking. If you think the people on the bus are scary, wait until you see who picks you up.

--Carpooling saves gasoline, and you can save even more if you make excuses for not driving whenever it's your turn. You can skip several turns by having your car "in the shop" before your fellow carpoolers catch on and dump you on the shoulder of the road.

--If you have children, much of your gasoline consumption undoubtedly goes to transporting them to after-school activities. Tell your kids such events have been canceled. Once they figure out you're lying, tell them it's their "patriotic duty" to stay home and save gas. If that still doesn't work, try this phrase: "We'll go as soon as you pony up your allowance for Premium Unleaded."

--Park your car and turn off the engine when communicating on your mobile phone. If you insist on using your car for a phone booth, you can at least sit still while you're doing it. Not only will you save fuel, but it'll be safer for the rest of us.

--Drive a more fuel-efficient vehicle. Much has been written about giant SUVs and how much gas they consume. Most people who drive SUVs don't need all that four-wheel-drive power and cargo room because they never take them outside the city limits. They drive SUVs because they think such vehicles are "cool." (Note: SUV is not pronounced "suave.")

Smaller vehicles not only get more miles per gallon, they're easier to push when you run out of gas altogether.

Or, follow my example and drive an aged minivan. It may not be fuel-efficient, but you'll be less tempted to cruise around aimlessly because someone might see you. Plus, if it runs out of gas, you can just abandon it.

And walk away.

Beats the alternative

We're all getting older -- some of us faster than others -- and older folks are slowly taking over the world.

The United Nations convened an assembly a few years ago to study the world's aging population. The UN discovered that, whoa, you can't turn around without bumping into a senior citizen. Particularly at Wal-Mart.

Today, the UN estimates, one of every 10 people is 60 or older -- a total of 629 million people worldwide. By 2050, the UN projects, one in every five will be 60 or older. By 2150, the ratio will be one in three.

These numbers immediately suggest two things:

1) We should run right out and invest in companies that make walkers, adult diapers and Botox. Also, in any restaurant chain that carries a dish called Sunset Senior Value.

2) Traffic will move much slower in years to come. By 2050, it'll take half a day to drive across town.

Beyond those superficial initial reactions lie more serious considerations: How will we provide medical care and housing and snack food for the growing number of senior citizens? And will all those birthday candles intensify global warming?

The UN assembly found that the world's aging population will place great demands on our international society. After much study and discussion, the assembly voted to buckle down and actively do more research on this important issue.

One question they should ask is: How does aging happen so gradually, yet seem to come upon a person all at once? Perhaps we could make better policies about getting older if we weren't so taken by surprise.

One day, you're in your twenties, a party animal. The next, you're a grizzled veteran, telling today's party animals how much fun everyone used to have in the good old days. Before long, you're in a rocking chair, trying to remember the good old days.

It happens so slowly, yet so all of a sudden, that it's difficult for researchers to track.
The physical transformation should be easy to study. For example: When does a man officially reach middle age? When he has to grunt to get up off the sofa. That's a quantifiable phenomenon that could keep highly paid researchers busy for years.

The mental and emotional shifts are harder to measure. Through our middle years, we're all terribly busy with children and careers and homes and ambitions. We don't notice the years slipping away. We wake up one day and we're old.

I recently turned 51. Well into the "grizzled veteran" stage. I'm out of shape. I'm terribly busy with teen-agers, career, etc. My hair's graying. Clerks call me "sir."

I knew I'd reached "middle age" when I noticed all the people I met in daily life -- doctors, dentists, barbers, mechanics, bank tellers, other people in positions of trust and responsibility -- were younger than me.

When I was young, everyone was older and seemed to command respect. Co-workers seemed ancient and wise. I called waitresses "Ma'am," not "Miss." Our family doctor was a gray-haired gent with rimless glasses and twinkly eyes. (He was probably about the age I am now.)

Now, you see doctors so young, they can't remember "Marcus Welby, M.D." from TV. Do I want such a whippersnapper operating on me? What if I show up at the clinic and the doctor is a young hipster with tattoos and a nose ring? The fact that I worry about such things proves I'm getting old.

This younger generation eventually will grow old like the rest of us and they'll undoubtedly be just as surprised. Before you know it, they'll shed their body jewelry and join our aging throng. We creaking oldsters will have the rest of you outnumbered.

Then just try to drive across town. We dare you.

Drive me crazy

When you work at home, most interaction with non-family humans comes in three modes: Telephone, e-mail and from behind the wheel of a car.

During most of my at-home career, I spent a couple of hours a day in an Oldsmobile with bench seats that my wife called "the living room on wheels." Our sons went to two different schools, halfway across town, and it was my job to act as their chauffeur. Plus, there are the many errands required by an average family of four, which mean more driving.

All this time among my fellow motorists has led me to this conclusion: Some people turn into chuckleheads the moment they slide behind the steering wheel.

I'm not talking about dangerous drivers, the ones you see on the nightly high-speed chases on TV. Those idiots should be forced to wear spike belts around their heads until they get smarter.

No, I'm talking your average Joe, your run-of-the-mill motorist who inevitably will do something stupid just as you're trying to pass.

Polls show that virtually everyone thinks he's a good driver. It's always "the other guy" who causes accidents. Lest you think I'm one of these hypocrites, let me be the first to say I'm not a perfect driver. I'm usually running late, which means I'm in a hurry, which means I attract slow-moving cars the way a porch light draws moths. Then I curse and fume and act a fool because all these people ARE IN MY WAY. Look in your rear-view mirror. If the motorist behind you is snarling and spitting and spinning in place like the Tasmanian Devil, that's probably me.

That said, my extended time behind the wheel has given me ample opportunity to study the sociology of driving. I've begun to categorize other drivers and to avoid those who fall into one of the following types:

--Old Guy in a Hat. Men used to make jokes about women drivers, until enough of them got run over that they learned to keep their mouths shut. But my careful research has revealed that when you're behind someone who's going 10 mph below the speed limit, in the fast lane, turn signal inexplicably blinking, it's probably not a woman, but an Old Guy wearing a hat. These guys should exchange their hats for crash helmets.

--Granny Under the Dash. You know which ones I mean. Sweet old ladies who can't see over the steering wheel. They're so little, you can't tell if they're wearing hats.

(A note: We housespouses run our errands in the middle of the workday, avoiding the teeth of rush hour, just like retirees do. That means we have lots of time to slowly trail behind Old Guys, admiring their hats. I don't know why senior citizens drive slowly. If I'm lucky enough to live to a ripe old age, I'm driving 80 mph everywhere I go. Once you've beaten the odds, what the hell . . .)

--The Busy Driver. These motorists are much too busy to drive. They're talking on cell phones and adjusting makeup and reading magazines and changing radio stations. Driving just gets in the way of their demanding lives. A word to the Busy Drivers out there: The rest of us want to kill you.

--The Lane-hopper. These drivers -- usually the younger ones -- change lanes two or three times as they approach a red light, trying to guess which one will zoom off fastest when the light turns green. They pass at every opportunity. All this high-speed maneuvering allows them to arrive at their destinations an average of 27 seconds sooner.

--The Scaredy-cat. These people never risk turning right on red. They never pass slower vehicles. They're much more interested in STOPPING than they are in GOING. Despite all this caution, the rear ends of their vehicles often are crunched. Probably by impatient drivers like me.

If you recognize yourself among those categories, you might want to change your driving style. You might want to consider public transportation. But, most of all, you might want to watch your mirrors.

If you see me back there, in the throes of my usual road rage, just pull over to the curb. It'll be safer for all of us that way.

Drive me crazy

Whenever I whine about how much I chauffeur my kids from place to place, I always hear from some Older and Wiser Parent who says sagely, "Wait until THEY learn to drive. Then you'll have a whole new set of worries."

That day is still far off (my older son is only 10), but already I break out in hives every time I think about my easily distracted boys behind the wheel of two tons of speeding steel.

I was reminded of this recently when I took the boys to Home Depot.

Usually, I avoid the huge hardware warehouses on Saturdays, when they're overrun with desperate do-it-yourselfers making their third shopping trip of the day because they still don't have the right part. But I decided to brave it because of a household emergency. A kitchen cabinet door had come off in my hand and we were fresh out of cabinet hinges here at the house.

My wife was at work, so I had to take the boys with me.

I told myself this would be a nice father-son opportunity, a chance to expose the boys to the wonders of tools and the aroma of plywood, a playful time of dodging those beeping forklifts that zip around the store. The boys saw it differently. To them, shopping was a dread interruption in a day already packed full of cartoons and play.

As we entered the store, the 10-year-old announced he would push the shopping cart, using that petulant tone that told me: He'll push the cart or he'll be a surly pain in the posterior the whole time. I let him push the cart, but only after numerous warnings about how the store was crowded and how he'd have to be careful not to run down any beefy carpenters.

I'd made a list of items we needed at the store, trying to save myself future trips, and the list included a couple of leaf rakes. Soon, my son was weaving through the throngs of frustrated homeowners with long, wooden rake handles protruding from the cart. I scampered around the cart, apologizing to those who were goosed by the rake handles and urgently cautioning my son against putting somebody's eye out. He doggedly hung on to the shopping cart's controls as it bumped into aisle displays and raked hanging items off into the floor.

At one point, the future flashed before my eyes and I had a vision of myself sitting in the passenger seat of a car, my fair-haired son behind the wheel, that same look of grim determination on his face as he ran other motorists off the road. It was enough to make my heart seize up.

I'd had the same sensation during the summer, when I took my boys to a video arcade. They took turns at an elaborate 3-D machine that let them race speedboats through stone-walled canals and around obstacles of all sorts. Both boys approached the game the same way: Set the throttle on bat-outta-hell and run over anything that gets in the way. Other racing boats, idle fishermen, the occasional water carnival, all were creamed by my sons' boats. When they were done, they boasted about their scores and said to me, "Didn't we do great?"

I replied somberly, "You're never driving a car of mine."

The 10-year-old's confident smile faltered. "What about when I get my driver's license?"

"You can have a license when you're 30," I said. "And you can buy your own car for crashing around in."

He seemed daunted for a second, then the light came back into his eyes. "I want one of those speedboats."

I started to ask him if he planned to live in Venice, but I bit my tongue. Let the youngster dream of driving. Someday he'll be out there on the open road (or canal), whether I like it or not. Let's just hope he doesn't have rake handles sticking out his windows.

For the record, when I went back to the hardware store later that same day, I left the boys at home. And I didn't even use a shopping cart. I only had to buy one small item -- the correct hinge for that cabinet door.

(Editor's note: The kid in this 2000 column is now driving, and it's just as terrifying as I predicted back then. I didn't teach him to drive; I'm too nervous. Mom had to do it.)