When Traffic Signals are Green

So I'm cruising along on my way to the office looking toward the horizon in nervous anticipation. I see the red hand blinking at the next intersection. Can I make it? 100 more feet and I'm in the yellow-go-zone. I gently press down on the accelerator. 60 feet....40.... and...Solid red hand, light turns yellow and my lemon yellow Skylark comes to rest just shy the thick white line. I look left. I look right. No cars coming. 120 seconds later, there are 14 cars lined up behind me and not a single car has crossed through this intersection. The light turns green and I curse under my breath as both time and energy are wasted for no reason.

This ritual has been going on at the very same intersection for the past four years. And in those four years, I can count the number of times another vehicle has passed through the intersection on one hand. Every morning I think to myself, "Maybe they opened my letter last night and realized just how foolish this traffic light is." But each morning I'm yet again disappointed like a Cubs fan in October. So why do we put up with such waste? How much fuel is burned unnecessarily while sitting at these ghost lights? How much carbon is emitted into our atmosphere while we sit idling?

Recently, after hitting a series of six meaningless red lights in a row, I started to research the impact of better timed and dynamically controlled traffic signals. It won't surprise you that there is some serious money to be saved, and green house gas reduction to be realized by timing our traffic signals.

The EPA estimates that over 3 billion pounds of air pollutants are released by automobiles each year. According to a study conducted by the National Transportation Operations Coalition, there is an opportunity to reduce these emissions by 22% through effective signal timing. Other benefits include traffic delay reductions of 15-40%, reduction in travel times of up to 25%, reductions in fuel consumption of up to 10% and an 18% reduction in exposure to radio ads for Viagra and monster truck rallies.

We could save time, money and reduce pollution. Wow. What a crazy notion. To put this into perspective each driver could save $200 in gas, and spend 100 fewer hours commuting each year. That's four days of you life that you could be spending with your family, volunteering or updating your Facebook page.

Some cities have looked into this, but they believe that updating traffic signals will be cost prohibitive. San Francisco estimated an outlay of $270,000 per intersection. Seems a little steep, personally. For $270,000 you could hire a traffic cop for seven years. And given California's economic situation, they should probably hold on to that $270,000 per intersection.

Other efforts to tackle the wasted energy of idling autos are starting to spring up in the meantime. Burger King is installing kinetic generators at some drive through restaurants in New Jersey. The purpose is to convert the energy of idling cars waiting at their drive through into electricity. Kudos for thinking outside the bun, but if you really want to become eco-friendly, try serving healthier food. After eating fast food, I'm the one emitting green house gases.

Maybe if fast food restaurants weren't contributing to the obesity problem, people would actually have more energy to walk instead of drive. Try cutting 600 calories from the triple bacon cheddar stuffed deluxe with a side of mondo fries if you really care about the environment. But this is a topic for another day.

So all this stimulus money is sitting there waiting to be spent. Eco-friendly ideas are strongly encouraged. We're trying to become better stewards of our planet. Global warming has caused my father to start wearing shorts again. And yet we sit idling at red lights while tumbleweed rolls by. We can fix this. And I'm guessing someone can make our traffic lights green for less than $270k per intersection. Next time I'm sitting at a traffic light, I'll give it more thought.

It's Official: French are Bad Hosts and Guests

So the annual Best Tourist rankings came out today, and guess what, fellow Americans? We're not considered the worst. In fact, we're not even in the top five! Or bottom five, might be a better way to phrase it. TNS Intrafest, a German research firm conducted their second annual "Best Tourist Survey". The survey asked 4,500 hoteliers across the globe to rate tourists from 27 nationalities based on nine criteria including: politeness, willingness to speak the local language, cleanliness, likelihood of complaining, tipping, dress/elegance, overall behavior, quietness and discretion.

The losers? The French.

The French ranked at or near the bottom of the list in politeness, willingness to speak the local language, generosity and overall behavior. Or as the Britons call it, "behaviour". C'mon, my pasty British friends. Drop the superfluous "u". You know you want to.

So my theory that the French were only rude when you're on their turf is shot to hell. Apparently they are rude when they are on your turf, too. In an attempt to defend these rankings, they actually blame their behavio(u)r on that fact that their country is so awesome they rarely ever leave it. And this puts them at a distinct disadvantage because they are not accustomed to things that are not supercali-francophilicious. Therefore, they tend to get stressed, demanding, loud and arrogant. Aren't you the same country that brought us the "mime"?

I think the French would be better off if they just admit what the rest of us know. They haven't won a major war without the assistance of America since the French revolution. And that was only because they were fighting each other and someone had to win. WII- lost then liberated. WWI- about to lose until we showed up. Indochina? Packed it on. Franco-Prussian war? Not even close. Napoleonic Wars? C'mon, just listen to the Abba song. In fact, the French had such a history of losing wars, that when they manufactured tanks in the early 20th century, they decided to only give them one gear. Reverse.

Okay, enough French military history. In all sincerity, the French do have a lot going for them. Paris is beautiful, especially when it's not occupied. Sorry- couldn't resist. The wines of France are unrivaled. The cheese is top notch. The art history, the geography, Edith Piaf, crepes, accordion music. These are all good things.

So I know it would be, as the French would say a "faux pas" to heed the advice on an ugly American, but learn to relax and enjoy cultural differences. Order a burrito at Taco Bell en Espanol. Tip your cabby for the thrill ride over sidewalks and down the wrong way of one-way streets. Laugh it off when Milly at the Best Western, Cheboygan loses your reservation. Crack open a nice bottle of Bourdeaux and relax when the chocolate souffle at Denny's collapses. C'est la Vie! N'est ce pas?

North Korea Starved For Attention

Does North Korea have a crush on Jodi Foster, just like would-be assassin John Hinkley? Or maybe they're feeling neglected because of the abundance of press Michael Jackson's death is getting. Over the past week, they've launched five more missile tests, and two cyber attacks on U.S. and South Korean government web sites. The old "Denial of Service" attacks meant to bring down public web sites. It's the cyber crime equivalent of toilet papering someones house. Sure it's a nuisance, but any idiot with a computer and six months of programing experience can figure out how to launch this type of attack.



I know Kim Jong Il has serious validation issues, but this is getting kind of silly. So who is is secret crush on? Katie Couric? Oprah? The Bachelorette? Surely something is driving this diminutive sociopath to this rambunctious behavior. You know Kim, you're only hurting yourself with these outbursts. Really. I know the faux Iranian election has bumped them up a notch on the Axis of Evil charts, but you don't need to prove to the world that you're still a major tool. We get it. Really.



So what's next Kim? Burning giant effigies of Rambo on national television? Leaking the conclusion of "Lost"? Burning "America Sucks" in a giant cornfield so our satellites can pick up the image when looking for your secret stash of WMD and hairspray?



C'mon, Kim. Pour youself a nice glass of scotch and dial up one of your Albanian hookers and relax. We still hate you. And as soon the whole Jackson children custody issue is settled, we'll start paying attention to you again. Promise.

Michael Jackson Tribute

So I'm sitting in a meeting today when one of my colleagues asks me if I've been following the Michael Jackson memorial online. At first I think he's joking. Surely people in my organization have more important things to worry about; like the origin of tube socks maybe. Before I can project a snarky comment from my diaphragm, an entire conversation about Michael Jackson breaks out. Over half of the people in the room had been watching coverage online. Not only were they watching, they genuinely seemed upset. My first instinct was to ask them all what the hell was wrong with them. My second instinct was to bludgeon them with a rolled up risk management plan. My third instinct was to report them all to their bosses for wasting time, but I was afraid I'd disturb their bosses who were probably also tuned in to circus. I cycled through my instincts until I got to number 43 and just kept my mouth shut. Until now.



At the risk of seeming callas, here it goes. Who gives a crap about Michael Jackson and why do we care if he's dead? Really. For the past fifteen years, the man has been the butt of more jokes than Cleveland. The man was an accused pedophile, with a pet chimp, a merry-go-round on his front lawn and the bones of the Elephant Man in a display case next to autographed McCauley Caulkin photo. He's had more plastic surgery than Shirley McLain has had lives and racked up more debt than Congress. And now he is being portrayed as this beautiful person who brought us all so much. Give me a break. He brought us a 15 minute video of him dancing around dressed as a zombie. Ironically, after all of the skin lightening, surgery and makeup he was the spitting image of the very zombie he portrayed. Oh, yeah. I almost forgot- he brought us the moonwalk. Super. Fantastic. Mother Theresa didn't get the sort of coverage and accolades that this Diana Ross look-alike is getting.



Okay, so I get that he was a musical pioneer of sorts. I understand his relevance to pop music. I get that he had a difficult childhood growing up with the pressure of show business, fame, yada yada. He had issues that weren't entirely his fault, but he also had issues that were his to own. The surgery never bothered me, but the fact that his appearance never bothered him was more disturbing.



But lets put this into perspective here. Did he use his fame and fortune to promote a good cause? Was he a role model? Was he painting a large swath of good across the planet with his power and influence? No. He was coaxing young children to his ranch. He was spending money on the most ridiculous of luxuries. Going on fully-leveraged shopping sprees. Dangling his children from hotel balconies, covering their faces with blankets to "protect them". Yet dragging them on camera and through public while the world filmed his freakish behavior. I'm not questioning his love for his children or his daughter's conviction that he was good to her. Outside of how the media has portrayed him, I know nothing of his parenting skills. But I'm sure he had a wonderful relationship with his kids and I really do feel badly for them.



But enough of the canonization of the man. He was who he was. An extremely talented singer and dancer with moderate to severe social disorders. He made music and behaved strangely. And he passed on the eve of his attempt to clear his debt, and partially restore his name. So the unfortunate timing has elevated this to "tragedy" status.



Whatever. Lets just move on, leave his poor children alone and find someone else with issues to obsess about.

One Less Vegetarian to Worry About

So I'm riding the A-train toward midtown to catch an exhibit of 17th century Spanish gnome art. Not just any Spanish gnome art exhibit, but the world's largest. Seven pieces, including Francisco Del Marco Vasquez's 1644 masterpiece, "Gnomo que Come la Calabaza de Butternut " (Gnome Eating Butternut Squash). Suddenly, I look up from my shoelaces and catch the gaze of one of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in the last 15 minutes. Her eyes were razor-blue. Her skin was alabaster. Her hair was like the chocolate, only hairier. In her hands, behind her can of mace, I noticed a brochure for the very same gnome art exhibit.

I had only met a handful of women who appreciated this unusual art movement, and most of them had recently changed their phone numbers. So I had to make my move. As I attempt to walk toward her, the thick, tacky concoction of Diet Pepsi and bodily fluids covering the train floor prevented me from lifting my feet. So I remove my shoes. Two steps later, I've removed my socks.We spent the next four hours discussing the virtues of Spanish gnome art, shopping for new shoes and socks, and waxing philosophical about such heady subjects as freedom, justice and lasik surgery. With the exception of the nickel-sized piece of spinach that was stuck in her teeth the entire time, it was magical.

We connected on many levels. 17 to be exact, if you include the "I hate the designated hitter" level. As the night started to wind down, I told her that I wanted to see her again. Maybe dinner the following night? She then whispered those three words that men dread when they first meet a woman (if you consider a contraction one word, of course). "I'm a vegetarian". Crap. Forgot to check compatibility on that level.

And she wasn't the "chicken eating" kind of vegetarian. Or the fish eating kind. Straight up herbivore. You know what? Nobody's perfect, I told myself. So the next night, I take her to the finest vegetarian establishment in the Meatpacking district, "The Fertile Beansprout". She orders the bean curd soufflé, and I order the cabbage. The conversation flows like wine, and the wine flows like beer. Thank God she drank. Forgot to check that level of compatibility, too. Our date ends with a passionate kiss on her door step. I really wish she hadn't ordered the bean curd soufflé. On my way home, I grab four chili dogs and a slab of ham. Sustenance.

This ritual goes on for three weeks, progressing in intimacy until finally she spends the night at my place. Anticipating this possibility, I stocked the kitchen with oatmeal, organic fruits and various sprout and kale products. The next morning, I prepare a veggie smoothie and loganberry oatmeal for her, and bacon and eggs for me. The aroma of an all-meat breakfast made her open up about her dietary choices.

She was an omnivore until college when she slowly gave up meat for health reasons. First red meat. Then white meat. Then all colors of meat. Then dairy. Then fish, primarily because the 1978 classic horror movie, “Piranha” had given her nightmares. It had been nine years since any meat product passed through her lips.After breakfast, she had to return to her place to feed her roommate's pet chinchilla. As I leaned in for a kiss, I realized that I might have still had a little bacon stuck in my tooth. I almost pulled away for fear of offending her, or accidentally breaking her nine-year streak of not ingesting meat products. Too late. She quickly pulled my face toward hers with soap opera gusto. We kissed passionately for minutes that led to hours. Meanwhile, a chinchilla was starving across town.

As our relationship progressed, we would alternate between spending nights at her place and mine. Each morning, she would eat her grains and I would eat bacon and eggs. She even stocked her fridge with bacon and eggs on my behalf, bless her malnourished little heart. And after breakfast each morning, we would inevitably have another go at waxing the freight train. Greasing the hamster. Powerwashing the porch floor.

Then things started to get a little weird. We would come home after a night on the town and she would light some candles, put on some Barry Manilow and start cooking bacon for me. She would insist that I have a few slices before we would make love. At first I didn't mind. I mean, c'mon. Who doesn't like a little bacon before romping?

But one particular night, I was a little queasy from all of the kelp and tequila I had consumed earlier. I passed on the bacon, which did not go over well. I spent that night on the couch. It was then I realized that it wasn't me she wanted. It was the taste of bacon on my pouty, but firm lips. So I began to refuse her bacon offerings and slowly our relationship deteriorated. Two weeks later, I found my toothbrush, deodorant, "Rambo" DVD and nose-hair clippers on her front stoop packed in the kemp knapsack I had given her on our one-month anniversary. Inside was a note.

"Dear Angus,I'm sorry that things ended this way. You're a good man with incredibly strong abs and remarkably good teeth for someone of Scottish decent. But I've changed over the past two months and felt that it was unfair to string you along. I hope you understand. Take care of yourself, and your abs.P.S. If you wouldn't mind passing along your bok choy-ka-bobs recipe, I'd appreciate it."

It wasn't me she fell in love with. It was the bacon. It was a hard lesson to learn, but a valuable one.Three weeks later, I was strolling through Gramercy Park heading to hear my favorite Peruvian flute band's Nirvana tribute when I saw her in the window of a restaurant. She sat at her table alone with a cup of milk and a plateful of bacon. Her pale, bony fingers were cramming three, maybe five slices into her mouth. Her eyes met mine and her face contorted into a brief look of embarrassment. She then turned back to her plate. The shame quickly transformed into the look of a ravenous dog who just discovered Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries in his food bowl.And that was the last time I saw her.

As I walked away, I thought to myself "Sure she broke my heart. But that's one less vegetarian we need to worry about, lads."

How Bacon Saved my Life

So I'm driving along a deserted stretch of highway inhabited mostly by sheep and the men who love them, when suddenly the front left tire of my rented 1994 marshmallow green Oldsmobuick Inertialux decides in can no longer handle the weight of me, my luggage and my 194 ounce MegaSlurp (which I purchased at the QuickPig Pulled Pork Sandwich Shop and Filling Station: Home of the QuickPig Pork Surprise). Immediately I begin cursing the rental agent at the "airport", which was really just a flat patch of grass and a wind sock. He assured me that there was plenty of tread left on those deceivingly bald tires and that he wouldn't think twice about sending his own mother clear into Boudreaux County for night crawlers on those very same tires. Mother-in-law maybe.

As the car begins to veer into oncoming traffic, I grab the hula hoop-sized wheel and give it a spin like Uncle Chester on Wheel of Fortune. As I'm sure you know, the '94 Inertialux does not handle like a Porsche, or even an aircraft carrier for that matter. This poorly thought out maneuver sends the car rumbling through what was previously serene cow pasture. I attempt to regain control as furry woodland creatures are springing out of the ground like cube dwellers who smell donuts. These very same woodland creatures had a previous understanding that as long as you stayed away from the "black earth with yellow lines", you were almost guaranteed to live a long and prosperous life, by woodland creature standards. I proved them wrong that day I can tell you.

After bouncing uncontrollably through the field for what seemed like an entire episode of The Dukes of Hazzard, my $19.95 per-day ride comes to an abrupt stop in a four-foot drainage ditch with the rear bumper facing the constellation Gemini. I manage to muscle the 300-pound car door open, pull the release cord on my seatbelt and tumble out into 18 inches of drainage (even though it hadn't rained in these parts for six weeks).I spring to my feet and fish out of the brownish liquid my shoe, my not-waterproof cell phone and someone else's shoe. Odd. I then leap from the irrigation and find a small pile of sod to plop down on and regain my composure. Here I am, 40 miles outside of Corn-on-the-Cobb , Alabama with no viable transportation, cell phone, food, compass, iPod, matches, beverage or the latest edition of the TV Guide. What would McGyver do?

Before I can answer this question, I hear the oddly familiar sound of a primer-gray 1977 Ford F-150 with a confederate flag painted on the hood, a gun rack in the back window and a squirrel's tail tied to the antenna. Or maybe it was a raccoon’s tail. I've always had trouble distinguishing between the two without the rest of the body as reference.As the vehicle bounces through the adjacent field on mattress spring suspension, I notice that the cab is filled with what appears to be three brothers; Jeb, Cleeve, and Jeb Jr. (Junior for short). These three siblings, who apparently spend a lot of time at buffets, are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the truck creating a single mass with a density greater than mercury and enough inert energy to power Oprah's house for a month. If either door were to unexpectedly open, the brother nearest the door would be shot out of the opening with the velocity of a cartoon mouse.

As the vehicle gets closer, I can see Jeb pointing at me and repeatedly screaming an unintelligible sentence that ended in "Yahyee!" I was not about to stick around to find out what "yahyee" meant, so I made like a suicidal woodland creature and darted toward the "black earth with yellow lines". While Cleeve steers the confederate flag adorned chick magnet in my direction, Jeb Jr. (Junior for short), in one extremely graceful motion reaches behind his head, grabs his trusty 12-guage with his sister's name carved in the stock, wields it toward the sky and begins firing into the air with absolutely no regard for local air traffic, or where the shots might actually come down.

As I approach the highway, I see a sign on the horizon, "Gerties House of Pancakes: Home of the Third Largest Pancakes This Side of I-55". Now that was worth seeing. With my shoe in one hand, and someone else’s in the other, I begin to pick up the pace heading for Gerties. The sound of muffler backfiring and shotgun blasts was getting closer.Running at speeds that would probably cause friction burns on most mortals, and would definitely melt cheese, my left foot suddenly finds the burrow of the world's largest gopher. This sends me skidding across the rock encrusted earth, leaving a trail of skin and DNA. I quickly recover and continue my sprint with pain registering in three of my four limbs.

As luck would have it, Cleve was unable to avoid an even larger gopher hole, which sent their patrol vehicle into the very same drainage ditch that got me. They were now on foot. Advantage: me. Based on their physiques I could somersault backwards faster than they could run. And I highly doubted that they would make the trek some 300 yards to Gerties without the assistance of oxygen and a crane.

Safely inside Gerties, I placed a call to Quadruple A and am told to sit tight while they get the next available truck out to me. Should be somewhere between 30 minutes and nine hours, they said. As I wait patiently at the syrup-encrusted Formica counter the sweet, smoky aroma of bacon overwhelms me. So I order the third largest pancake this side of I-55, eight slices of bacon and half an egg, over medium.

Just as my undercooked egg, overcooked pancake and perfectly cooked bacon arrives, so do Jeb, Cleeve and Jeb Jr (Junior for short). And they're not looking particularly gregarious. They catch sight of me and slowly waddle over to my stool. Their shadow covered me and seven other patrons to my left.

To my left is a dull steak knife. To my right, two ketchup bottles. As I stand to face the antagonists, I slowly reach for the one thing that might thwart their attack. My plate. "Bacon?" I offer, as I extend the chipped yellow dish piled with food. First a look of confusion on their face. Probably the same look they had when they learned about their "uncle". They glanced at each other, not sure what to do. And then a distinct softening of their features. Their shoulders relaxed. Their brows un-furrowed. Their inconsistent teeth receded back under their lips. Simultaneously, three axle-grease covered hands reached for the plate, removing all eight slices of bacon. Their eyes still looking slightly puzzled, they turned and walked slowly back through the door, devouring the salty pork goodness bestowed upon them. As the door began to close, I even thought I heard Cleeve mutter, "Thanks for the bacon, stranger".

But it's me who owes thanks. To bacon. It saved my life. Bacon has the power to bring people together like no other meat product. Maybe one day bacon will save your life, too. Thanks, bacon.