Where no man has gone

Still not convinced that William Shatner is your lord and savior? Let's compare his activities to yours in recent months to get a read on how your accomplishments stack up to Shatner's, side by side:

• You: Despaired about the news
  
• Shatner: Penned inspirational, capital-case blog entry titled This Was A Really Troubled Year For the World, More So Than Ever
  
  
• You: Watched a DVD
  
• Shatner: Established DVD club that "provides you with a selection of rare and compelling Sci-Fi, Fantasy & Horror films, personally selected by William Shatner"
  
  
• You: Emptied your bladder
  
• Shatner: Sold kidney stone to virtual casino
  
  
• You: Sang along to car radio
  
• Shatner: Co-produced surreal, music-themed celebration of self called Living in TV Land: William Shatner in Concert
  
  
• You: Watched Discovery Channel
  
• Shatner: Headlined two hour Discovery Channel documentary unassumingly titled How William Shatner Changed the World
  

The defense rests.

The god of whistling

You know who is the god of whistling? You can stop guessing right now, because the answer is me. (I am also the god of bad singing but that is another post). Today in the parking garage at work, no one was around, so I busted out with Boston's "More Than a Feelin'" whistled at top volume (OK, admittedly I was listening to the bad classic rock station "Jack FM" on the way in, because the college radio station was having its annoying pledge drive) and I have to say, no one whistles "More Than A Feelin'" in a deserted parking structure like tiny dog. I mean, we are talking MTAF complete with tremolo and the soaring power notes, and all that cool stuff that makes you rev your Camaro when you're listening to Boston on your 8-track. It was almost a sad thing that no one else was around to note my mastery of this classic to themselves, which is why I am telling you now.

You'd almost think that constant whistling of canonic classic rock tunes in random situations annoys people, the way they refuse to admire it, the big exception being cashiers, who often pay compliments to accomplished random whistlers such as myself, thank you very much. This goes out to all the cashiers! Woot! (What the hell is "woot?")

It's not everyone who underestimates the whistle as a critical instrument of rock prowess, you know. For example, John Lennon understood. I love the part of this particular live cover of his "Jealous Guy" by Elliott Smith, where Elliott says to the audience "Any whistlers in the crowd? You're in luck... there's a whistle solo." I always whistle along, because I am in fact, a whistler in the crowd. The only other song I can think of that takes advantage of the sonic awesomeness of the whistle solo is of course, Otis Redding's "Dock of the Bay." Are there others? Which ones am I leaving out?

At any rate my point here is this: next time you hear me whistling "Stone in Love" by Journey, or even something off-genre, like "Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairies," consider giving me some respect. Because let's face it people: I have the gift.

Pears: my frank opinion

I just ate a pear and I feel the need to say something about it, no matter how pointless.

You know you don't eat pears. They are almost like a fictitious food product, invented for children's coloring books or plastic food bowl displays. You might catch a glimpse of one on fire, drenched in bourbon or chocolate sauce on one of those chipper, one-note Food Network shows like "Sugar Rush," but that's as far as you and this dumpy-shaped fruit have taken things in the last decade or so. Don't try and tell me otherwise-- you'd only be lying.

Problem number one is clear: there is no way of telling whether a pear is ripe. Even if you happen to guess correctly when you go to cut it and you're able to get the knife through, it rewards you by tasting like an apple that someone soaked in Captain Morgan dregs from a frat party, and then dropped in the sand. Which is not entirely bad, but a little disconcerting. Why not just have an apple? Those are always ripe-- no guessing. (Unless they are red delicious, in which case they are mushy, and remind you of sad, uneaten bag lunches abandoned under the back seat of a school bus.)

I guess that is all I have to say about pears. It seemed when I was eating the darned thing that there was a whole mess of comments to make about the experience, but here I am, and I've got nothing. What does that say about pears?

Exactly.