Excess Baggage

August 5, 2010

I picked up a new project recently, which means I had to clear the decks, and the desk, to accommodate the work flow. I was overdue for a cleanup, as the office was looking like Max’s room in Where the Wild Things Are and the floor was beginning to sag into the basement. Just a bit.

Time to toss all that material about executive relocation and technology consulting, the remnants of the magazine publishing assignment and the memo about office equipment leasing. Five-year-old directories, month-old magazines, expired coupons from Office Depot….gone gone and gone.

Clearing out the detritus requires more than a day. One garbage can is already full, but there are still too many piles to consider the job done. I’m going through all the old magazines and newspaper clippings and letters/emails that seemed important at the time. I saved them until I could give them all the attention they deserved. Now, though, I read through them and realize I’ve merely delayed the recycling truck’s pickup.

The job must be completed before I can move forward. I can’t find space or time for the new assignments until I get rid of the old stuff that’s cluttering up my workspace.

It’s no different from the rest of life, of course. It’s tough, sometimes impossible, to move forward until we get rid of the junk that’s making a mess of our lives today. We can’t launch a new journey with the same old baggage.

Sometimes, the mess that holds us back is absolutely obvious. Sometimes, it’s invisible. Visible or not, though, we can count on it to be long-tenured and much less important than we assumed it to be. Once we look at the materials we’ve been saving, the anchor chains of our life, we find they aren’t as meaningful, or critical, or valuable, as they seemed when we decided to hold on to them.

What do I need to clear off my desk, or from my mind, to accelerate my progress? How do I take a fresh look at the keepsakes that turn out to be monkey’s paws rather than rabbit’s feet?

Every so often, it’s important to reboot.

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Sacred Time

July 28, 2010

Susan and Stephanie were having a Sister Day.

Two or three times a year, they get together simply to enjoy each other’s company and share the joy of being sisters. Usually, it involves some self-indulgent activity like manis or pedis or shopping and, sooner (usually) or later, consumption of alcohol. Sometimes, in the evening, the boys are allowed to join them.

Sister Days are sacred time, not to be interrupted by social engagements or family demands or work. The girls put up a wall around their time together and decline the opportunity to bring the rest of the world inside.

Sometimes, the rest of the world might bristle, just a bit, at their practice. If something comes up, why can’t the girls postpone their day? There are a million opportunities for them to spend time together, so why not make an adjustment to fit in a new engagement?

Which got me to thinking, as most things do, about time and priorities. How we spend time—our most precious resource—is a measure of our values. When do we bend, when do we break and when do we hold firm? What or who comes first on our list and when do we move people aside—including ourselves—for someone else’s benefit?

If a customer called with a problem, would we be expected to interrupt our honeymoon? Skip a funeral? Work on New Year’s Day? What if it wasn’t a honeymoon, but a long-delayed dinner? What if it wasn’t a funeral, but a long-awaited visit to the zoo? And what if it wasn’t a customer, but one of many friends who suddenly can fit us into THEIR schedule?

Would we forgive someone for declining to meet with us because they were riding a bicycle, reading a book or having a Sister Day? Could we acknowledge that their schedule of personal time is just as valuable, just as critical, as their career?

If you had been working for 21 straight days and had blocked out Day 22 for simply sitting in the house and reading a book, would you feel comfortable letting the world know about your choice? If mom or the boss or a friend from college called on the evening of Day 21 to suggest lunch the next day, could you decline the offer? Could you disclose the reason for your choice?

Some days, we’re the highest priority on somebody’s list. Other days, we’re not. It doesn’t make us, or them, bad people. Sometimes, it’s just a conflict of sacred times.

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It Seemed Like Such a Good Idea at the Time

July 20, 2010

Every so often you get a brilliant idea. You wake up in the middle of the night and say, GADZOOKS, THIS IS GENIUS. And maybe you grab a note pad by your bed and write down your $billion$ idea and then, when you wake up the next morning, you look at the note and try to figure out what you meant when you wrote, “put it online and phzilkygiiisz.”

I know how you feel. My penmanship, which is somewhere between doctor and dachshund, gets even worse in the middle of the night. If I could have read the notes about all my great ideas the next morning, I’d be so rich right now that I’d have someone sitting by the bed all night, just waiting to take dictation.

Until then, I’ll just have to content myself with the recognition that some of those billion-dollar ideas might not have panned out quite as well as hoped. For every idea that hits it big—pet rocks, hula hoops, carpal tunnel syndrome—another fifty or hundred prove to be expensive flops. I know, because I invested in most of them.

There is something much worse than a bad idea that flops, however. Far more expensive and irritating are all the bad ideas that succeed. We are plagued daily by timesavers and solutions that cause much, much, much more trouble than they are worth. They might have seemed like good ideas at the time, but they come from a box labeled Pandora.

My own Hall of Shame includes:

Automatic faucets. Okay, just move your hand a little closer; no, just a bit more. Oh, did the water just soak your sleeve? Bwaahahahahahah. Automatic faucets seem like such a convenience, but we have no control over the water temperature, how much water comes out or, in some cases, whether the water comes out at all. Don’t you love it when an overly aggressive faucet sprays onto your pants and you walk out of the restroom with the appearance of a person who just….? If only there was some kind of manual override for these things, maybe a handle of some sort that could turn the water on and off and adjust the temperature? Someday, perhaps, such a device could be invented.

Voice mail. Voice mail is the greatest wealth transfer mechanism in the universe, bigger and more far-reaching than Social Security, Health Care Reform, credit cards, online pornography or professional sports. Millions of companies decide to save the cost of having people answer phones and take messages; then pay their few remaining employees to leave messages for somebody else. Voice mail seems to save money, because companies know how much they once spent on secretaries. Watch how much time employees spend talking to machines, however, and it’s clear this experiment has gone horribly wrong.

Rolling luggage. Luggage without the lugging. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for starters, the rollers and handles add weight to the bag and take up storage space, so the bag is heavier and totally unwieldy when we actually have to pick it up. Worse, these things take up too much space in the overhead bins, which leaves room for fewer suitcases and other carry-ons, while the boarding process is delayed at least ten minutes while various klutzes try to stuff their roll-aboards in the A-B bins. Perhaps airlines should start charging a toll for each axle? I discovered a final flaw on the shuttle bus to Sky Harbor last week as a boulder on wheels slammed into passengers each time the bus turned, bounced, slowed…

Reply All. Whenever I’m driving and I decide to take a shortcut, I end up getting lost, taking more time and traveling more distance than would have been the case if I’d just stayed on the original route. Reply all is like that, a shortcut in name only. Send an invitation to ten people and nine will hit reply all to announce whether they intend to show up, ask about the dress code, mention that they’re lactose intolerant…. If people had to type in the names of their recipients, all of us could spend more time watching television.

Social Networking. Let’s see. I’m spending about two hours a day scrolling through FaceBook entries and LinkedIn entries and checking out tweets. Most of the stuff is boring, so I don’t bother responding. My posts are brilliant, but my online friends are too busy shouting “look at me” to notice my wit. Meanwhile, thanks for calling, but I can’t take an hour off to meet you for lunch today. I’m too busy being social. All alone. At my desk. Surrounded by friends I’ve never met and strangers I used to know. If you post your thoughts online and nobody responds, do you really exist?

Drive-Through. I don’t have to get out of my car to pick up the dry cleaning, buy my breakfast, drop off a deposit at the bank or mail a letter. I’d be saving tons of time, except that idiot in front of me can’t decide whether to get the hash browns or the tater tots and the guy before him didn’t like the foam on his latte and I had to wait five extra minutes while they resteamed his non-fat yak milk. Hey, look over there. That family of four that was going in when I pulled up here is done with their breakfast and heading to their car. I can’t understand why they didn’t take advantage of this convenient drive-through lane like me.

Loyalty Programs. Booking a plane ticket on the company’s dime and earning free trips as a result? Now that’s what they mean when they say ‘something for nothing.’ Except that the flights aren’t available and there’s a fee for cashing in the points and the number of miles needed for a free trip goes up and up. Whether its hotels, airlines, book stores, restaurants, hardware stores or grocers, I’ve been seduced and abandoned by half of corporate America. I’d stop the madness, except I’m only 3,200 points away from a free pencil. Without a doubt, points are the crystal meth of marketing.

Supersize. Do I really have to explain this one?

The list goes on and on, but all this whining is tiring me out. Time for me to go take a nap and dream up some great new ideas to improve our lives. If we’re really lucky, I’ll forget all about them before I wake up.

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Immigration and Ockham’s Razor

July 4, 2010

Fourth of July Note: Before posting this item, I passed it by some friends, both conservative and liberal and somewhere in between. None has unfriended me on FaceBook and they still take my phone calls, so it’s just possible there’s some truth in common sense. And isn’t this great country all about common sense, common people and the commonwealth? As Sarah Palin would say, “You betcha.”


I am continually amazed at the people who think immigration reform is a controversial topic of some sort. When you approach it like a true American, it’s so simple that even a child couldn’t screw it up.

Thank God we have Congress to handle it for us. Or not handle it, as the case may be.


The United States is a really special country and part of what makes us special is our history of accepting all kinds of people from all kinds of places and turning them into AMERICANS. We’re all hyphenated Americans of a sort, but most of us end up with the second half (xyz-AMERICAN) in all caps.

The ability to take in boatloads of people and transform them in a generation or two is such a quiet and consistent process in this land that we sometimes forget it exists. Like the cleanup teams at Disneyland, the work is so silent and efficient that you can forget it’s going on.


We all take pride in saying this is a nation of immigrants and, in fact, most of us are no more than two or three generations removed from the people who grabbed a batch of clothes and a fry pan and hopped on some ship—in steerage. Most of us, I suspect, have actually met the person who was the first of our family to set foot on these shores, even if that person is no longer with us today.

We believe in the American Dream, the ability of strangers who know nothing of this country or its culture to become a part of us and to succeed. Many (most) of us recognize that the American Dream has been at work in our own families.

People come here to pursue the American Dream and you don’t see a whole lot of people begging for a chance to leave. The exit door is open, but there’s a lot of cobwebs on the hinges. The American Dream involves work and most people come to work. You can see it in the fast food joints, the donut shops, dry cleaners, landscaping companies, factories—pretty much anywhere that the wages are low and the work is difficult. It’s the first step on the ladder and they’re ready to jump on it.

Immigration is good for many reasons. It brings in new workers—people with drive and ideas—enriches our overall culture and builds our economy. Everyone in this country needs to eat, to sleep, to have a roof overhead, to attend school and buy clothes and pay for texts. Strip away all the political spinning and lies and you find that population growth builds the economy and immigration is a good way to build population.

By the way, population growth is one reason the United States might fare better than many European countries that are aging faster and have few younger workers to pay taxes. Whatever we might think about Social Security and Health Care Reform and other government programs, it’s an absolute fact that each of us pays less taxes than we would if there were fewer people to support the system. If anything, immigration is a good way to reduce the burdens per capita from unaffordable programs.


First, let’s stop saying politically correct things like “undocumented.” Using euphemisms makes people sound fearful, unable to address topics head-on.

The challenge in discussing illegal immigration is that the distinction is legality, not immigration. Lots of people who don’t like immigrants, other than their own grannies, will talk about immigrants as if all are illegal. Lots of people who see legality as a mere technicality talk about illegals as if they don’t represent a problem at all.

So we come to the question: Why does legality matter? If a person comes to work, as most do, why do we care if they come with papers or not?

There are two simple answers here:

First, if we cannot know whether Jose or Piotr or Winston has entered the country legally, we cannot know if Osama bin Laden is here, either. Knowing who is in the country is a national security issue. It’s not particularly dangerous when Pedro comes to harvest fruit or Mani overstays his visa to keep writing code, but that doesn’t mean we should ignore their presence. In the world of security, you can’t inspect only the bad guys, because they tend to hide among the good ones.

Second, illegal immigration creates a number of distortions in our country. Illegal immigrants are more likely to be abused in the workplace and less likely to report a crime. Illegal immigrants with native-born children run the risk of being deported, leaving their citizen offspring behind. Illegal immigrants are more likely to work for cash, and be off the tax rolls, although lots of American shrimp boat operators in the Gulf are suddenly discovering the downside of that gambit as they need to show BP how much income they’re losing.

The cost of illegal immigrants to the nation is really hard to calculate, although you can find very specific numbers trumpeted on both ends of the political noise machine. If an employer pays illegal immigrants in cash and provides no benefits, that employer’s income rises and he pays more taxes as a result. Assuming our law-abiding employer is actually paying the full amount of his taxes owed, the government might see a net gain in its income—because the employer is paying at a higher marginal tax rate than his worker. As money circulates through the economy, the total impact of Illegal/legal immigrants might not vary much, but there could be large displacements as local school boards get less, for example, and the state government or feds get more.

Illegal immigration also creates distortions in law enforcement. Local police have fewer cooperating witnesses when the victims of crimes have the threat of deportation hanging over their heads. More federal dollars go to tracking down and deporting criminals here illegally, people who would be simply local/state targets if they were citizens or, in some cases, legally within our borders. As a result, less federal time and dollars go to anti-terrorism efforts.


Okay, assuming everything above is true, which it is, what do we do? We benefit from immigration, but illegal immigration creates costly displacements in the economy. Is there, perhaps, a three-step solution to fix all of this?

Why, yes, there is.

1. Secure the borders. It costs much less to keep the border secure than to try to find and address issues across 50 states. By borders, I’m talking about the coasts and Canada, along with Mexico. This is a national security issue, not a Mexican immigrant issue. We do need to invest more heavily in the South, as a practical matter, but people who speak only of the southern border betray more of their beliefs than they might realize. This government, like every government, has all good reason to know who is and isn’t coming into the country. Why waste money on immigration enforcement in the States when it takes about a week for a deported person to re-enter our space? Secure borders are a necessity. In fact, nothing works without secure borders, because people who are thrown out find it far too easy to come back.
2. Open the gates. Bring in immigrants by the truckload and encourage them to become citizens. Yeah, there’s no more room here, but that’s what they said when our grandparents were getting off the boat, too. We have room and we have opportunity—that American Dream thing we like to talk about. People on the left love Zero Growth when it comes to environment, but not immigration. People on the right love Zero Growth when it comes to immigration, but not the environment. They’re both wrong. When we make it easier to come legally, we reduce the incentive to come illegally. Fewer criminals enter, including terrorists, because the border is secure, and people who are deported are likely to stay deported, for the same reason. The good, hard-working people who want to become Americans will be able to do so and we will know how to keep the others out of our fine nation.
3. Create a path to citizenship. Let’s face facts. We aren’t going to deport 12-20 million people. First, it might not be possible for us to identify and process that many people in a lifetime and we would end up with multi-trillion-dollar costs in doing so. In addition, the movement of 12-20 million people, many of them employed and, contrary to public opinion, paying taxes, would cause gigantic disruptions to our economy. Not to mention the violent battles in the streets of our nation.

If we eliminate the impossible, as Sherlock Holmes said, we’ll arrive at the truth. The truth is that we would benefit immensely from having 12-20 million additional tax-paying, voting, engaged citizens. (NB: Republican fears that all will be Democratic votes might not come to pass. Contrary to much punditry, Latino doesn’t equal Liberal.) Bringing illegals out of the shadows, to the extent they are hiding now, will also accelerate their acculturation as Americans.

The Puritanical side of me believes all the illegal immigrants should have to pay fines and back taxes and otherwise jump through flaming hoops to become citizens. The common sense part of me says we should make the path attractive—even it it isn’t free—and naturalize as many as we can as fast as we can. It will be less expensive, less time consuming and less disruptive over the long term.

Sometimes, we make situations more complicated than they need to be. In seeking or insisting on the perfect solution, we give ourselves the excuse to provide no solution at all. The problem gets worse, as has been the case with government spending, Social Security shortfall, state pension programs, personal debt and so on. We pass the problem on to our children like an heirloom that is not only priceless but also unaffordable.

Every so often, Ockham’s Razor is the scalpel we need. Every so often, we must decide whether we want to be vindicated in our beliefs or simply choose to resolve an issue. Immigration reform is simple, if we want it enough to choose common sense, decency and practicality over ideology.

And, on this Fourth of July, isn’t it nice to recall that common sense, decency and practicality are fundamental strengths of this great nation?

You betcha.

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June 26, 2010

“When you’re a spy,” Michael Weston informs us, the key to survival is to trust no one and look for danger everywhere. The Burn Notice character has nothing on cyclists.

Yes, it’s summer again and all us weekend warriors are pumping up our tires and confidence as we take on deadly threats unimagined by mere mortals. It’s a miracle any of us survive, but miracles do happen. All you need is a little luck and the instincts of a ninja, plus a download of The Intersect. Sorry, wrong show.

On the surface, bicycling is a pleasant way to spend a weekend afternoon. Beneath the veneer, it’s mortal combat. When you’re a spy, you only wish you had the instincts of a savvy cyclist.

When you’re a cyclist, you watch out for mom. Not every mom and probably not your own mom, but the one coming out of the shopping center. Two kids in the back, Blue Tooth engaged, focused on her next errand, she’s MULTITASKING as she rolls across the sidewalk and noses into your slice of road. If you don’t move fast enough, she gets a new hood ornament.

When you’re a cyclist, you avoid killer sewers. Lots of towns use sewer grates with slats that are exactly the width of a bicycle tire, positioned lengthwise to catch tires and send cyclists headfirst over the handlebars. Try to avoid these deathtraps and you come dangerously close to the giant mirrors of that tricked-out mini-van driven by a Killer Mom. Do the guys in the Streets Department have a betting pool going each summer for that year’s head count? You gotta wonder.

When you’re a cyclist, road crews are your mortal enemy. When road work needs doing, the bike lane or sidewalk becomes a trash pit. Asphalt boulders and holes the size of canyons can blow a car tire, but they present an existential threat to pedal pushers. Hmm, do I want to drop into that hole in the ground and flip over or swerve left in front of that dump truck that’s closing in? Do the guys in the Streets Department have a betting pool…..?

When you’re a cyclist, you must yield to cars, trucks, boats, cars hauling boats, boats hauling mopeds and anything else that burns dinosaur poop instead of carbs. That’s on the street. On the bike path, we also have to yield to pedestrians, horses, deer and badgers. If it moves, or it doesn’t, we have to yield to it. We’re second-class citizens, but nobody protests on our behalf. We’re on our own, friendless, like John Rambo or Tony Hayward.

When you’re a cyclist, you survive by reading the signs and knowing they aren’t written for you. All signs are like that old game in which you end each fortune cookie message with the words, “in bed.” For us, the magic words are, “for cars.” No Outlet means No Outlet for Cars, which can be a lifesaver as a small sidewalk or footpath frees us from traveling on a 50 mph road.

When you’re a cyclist, you use cars as your protection. That guy who’s about to make a left turn across your path isn’t going to worry about you, but he won’t challenge oncoming traffic. If there are cars coming in the same direction as you, it’s safe to keep moving. If your side of the street is empty, it’s Defcon 1.

When you’re a cyclist, you know eye contact isn’t just for dating. It’s impossible for the driver on your left to miss you in your bright yellow Spandex and matching helmet. And yet, he’s achieving the impossible. He’s looking to the left, because he’s about to make a right turn and he wants to be sure nobody is going to hit him. He hasn’t bothered looking to the right—you can tell because he’s not giggling at how silly you look in yellow Spandex. To him, you are only an unlikely possibility, like the Loch Ness monster or cable guys who show up on time. Until you make eye contact, consider yourself a statistic.

There’s much more, of course, but you get the picture. That paunchy old guy who’s already having an asthma attack as he coasts down the driveway this morning? He’s a hero. Not just a hero, but a hero on par with Navy Seals, demolition squads and whoever it is that cleans up Grant Park after Taste of Chicago.

Summer cycling is a dance with

the Reaper. We only wish we had it as easy as burned spies.

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Your Idiot Boss

June 21, 2010

Being the font of wisdom that I am, younger folks will sometimes ask me important questions, such as, “Do you want paper or plastic?” “Is that for here or to go?” and “Did you dress that way intentionally?”

Young people are learning new things every day, of course, and their education doesn’t end with graduation. Just like childhood (I bet I can climb all the way! How many of these can I fit in my nose?) the metamorphosis from teen to adult is a time of constant wonder that the newly independent are anxious to share.

Mom, you just don’t realize how hard it is to have a job and do your own laundry.
Dad, can you believe my landlord expects me to take out my own garbage instead of getting it from me?
Mom, you just don’t understand how much groceries cost.
Dad, you won’t believe how much money the government takes out of my paycheck. MY paycheck.

Forget it, Wonder Bread. The formative years aren’t ages 1-12. They’re 18-23. It’s a time of immense discovery for young adults and for immense smirking and giggling among parents everywhere.

Many of the greatest sources of wonder and bewilderment originate in the workplace, where the newest employees on the payroll discover all the failings of their employers and ask one of my favorite questions of all time: How did this idiot get to be my boss?

Alas, it is true. Like Mork from Ork and Benjamin Button, we regress as we advance in our careers. The person who can run the company after 40 hours of indoctrination must abide the foolish prattle of a clueless manager while waiting to show everyone how it should be done.

It is the ultimate irony. The same guy who was smart enough, insightful enough and farsighted enough to hire my young friends turns out, in the end, to be an idiot.

“Hiring me was the smartest thing he ever did,” they might say. “Other than that, it’s hard to believe he’s allowed to operate a cell phone. I’ve been here all of two weeks and I already understand the company better than he does.”

I have great sympathy for my young friends, as I also discovered the shocking ineptitude and idiocy of many bosses on the way to becoming an inept and idiotic boss myself. I know the temptation that comes from seeing things more clearly than the people at the top of the organization.

“I bring a fresh perspective and great analytical skills that are strangely absent anywhere in the company until now,” I would say. “In fact, my new boss hired me for exactly that reason, hoping I would tell her how she is screwing up and how she can do her job better.”

All of this is true, of course, but the really savvy novice will focus on something deeper than the incompetence that dwells on the surface. Perhaps the boss has a hidden talent, much like the X-Men or porn stars. Somewhere, behind the memos and the policies and the mind-numbing incoherence of their strategies, somewhere beneath the contradictory goals and illogical incentives and undeserved self-esteem, a genius could reside. After all, if a person so untalented could rise in the organization, they must know something. Right?

Right. If their skill set is not found in actually running the company, perhaps they are savants at getting promoted by their own bosses. If a new hire could have all the answers to running the company AND learn how to get promoted more quickly, there’s no end to the opportunity.

And so, young people, I suggest that you hold back from saving the company for just a few days and take the time to really study your boss. What did she do to get where she is now? How does she hide her incompetence from her own bosses? And how did THOSE doofuses get to the top? The answers to these questions are the keys to success.

Study them. Admire them. Mirror their behavior. If they can do it, you can do it faster and better. All you need is a good sense of humor and a whole lot of patience.

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FATHER KNOWS BEST About Father’s Day

June 1, 2010

Just Say NO to cosmetics in a can......duct-tape wallets......beer-belly shirts......T-Shirts modeled by women......and ties we'll never wear.

Father’s Day is coming and I cannot wait for my morning paper.

Mother’s Day dawned with the annual article about how Stay At Home Moms are worth $117k per year, based on their work as cooks, cleaners, drivers, etc. I read stories about famous people who love their moms, moms who save puppies, moms building day-care centers on Mars….all the feel-good stories fit to print.

On Father’s Day, I can anticipate a parade of felons in my Sunday paper. Deadbeat dads, abusive dads, absentee fathers, dads who kill their kids….ah, the inspirational stories are endless on Father’s Day. This year, we’ll probably see additional stories about all the unemployed dads whose wives continue to hold down jobs and, also, do all the housework and childrearing while the shiftless, lazy bums spend their days on the couch, drinking too much, watching Home Run Derby and scratching themselves.

It’s uplifting, in a way. All the stories about bad dads make me feel like Dad of the Year. Granted, the bar is set pretty low here, but I have a golf handicap of 276, so I thrive on low expectations. I will take a self-esteem award every now and then, because I have absolutely zero pride.

Still…..let’s say you’re one of the .0003% of Americans with a non-felon, non-abusive, sober father. How can you show your appreciation for your rare good fortune this Father’s Day?

1. Quote him. Every dad wants to be known for something smart/funny he said. Any time you start a sentence with, “It’s like you told me….” an angel gets his wings. And you can deduct $10 from the cost of your gift.

2. Ask for advice. Dads want to share their great wisdom. Hell, I wrote a whole book about it (shameless plug, but if you’re interested, go here) just to make sure the girls remembered all my great stories. Each time you ask him for his opinion or advice, you can deduct another $10 from the cost of your gift.

3. Listen. If you ask for advice and immediately check your texts while he’s answering, add $100 to the cost of your gift. If he wanted to talk to himself, he’d be on FaceBook.

4. Buy something practical. If you’re going to buy something for dad, make it something he can, and will, use. Except for a rare handful of metrosexuals who refuse to act their age, dads don’t want ties or ascots or the latest loafers that will have all the other guys in the office saying, ”Ooh, you fashionista.” Me, I always ask for socks or underwear, because I know it’s something I can use and I really don’t care what brand they buy.

5. Never buy a man a wallet. Wallets are intensely personal and nobody can buy one for a man. It’s like buying shoes for a woman and actually expecting her to wear them?!?!!?!? If you buy one and he uses it, know forever that he is suffering with your choice only to keep you from being disappointed. That’s how much he loves you.

6. One more thing about wallets, pants, shoes and other personal items. Never assume that a man wants to replace something after it gets a hole or a scrape or a stain on it. We don’t consider these things worn out; they are broken in. Once something is broken in, it becomes a part of us, a friend, and you never discard a friend.

7. Don’t buy anything attached to his favorite hobby. Maybe a set of golf balls, if you know whether he prefers Titleist Pro V1s or TaylorMade Noodles. Part of the fun of a hobby is getting your own supplies. It’s like hunting and fishing—you eat what you kill. So, unless he asked you specifically for the XL47 Motor-Driven, Solar-Powered, Ambidex, Unisex Putter and gave you the UPC code, don’t buy one. It takes longer to return it and buy what he wants than to simply get it himself.

8. No new horizons. If dad never exercises, don’t buy him a set of ankle weights so he can try something new. If he never reads for pleasure, don’t tell him he will simply devour Caleb Carr. (My book is the exception of course, but that’s because it’s DADLORE.) If he never gardened before, maybe there’s a reason, as in he doesn’t want to do it.

9. Hang around. If dad likes to sit on a chair and look at the neighbor’s weeds, join in. Don’t decide to take him to the flower show because you like flowers and want to share with him. If he wants to go to the racetrack, don’t take him to the zoo. If he likes baseball, don’t go for a bike ride. Yes, you know better about how to throw a party and dad’s a doofus, but humor him just this once.

10. Balance the merriment. Dads are self-effacing. Let them know you think they’re important and they’ll appreciate it. Go overboard and they’ll feel uncomfortable. It’s not that they won’t think they deserve it, but they’ve been living in a political snakepit sometimes referred to as a workplace. They get suspicious when anyone is really, really complimentary.

11. Read his lips. If dad says he doesn’t care where you have dinner, he doesn’t care where you have dinner. Dads don’t do coy very well. We want to go where we want to go, we don’t want to go where we don’t want to go and we don’t care when we don’t care. Also, we have no imagination whatsoever, so we don’t have the energy to make up funny gotcha games.

12. About that shaving thing. Not shaving makes us feel like real men, hairy beasts with power and testosterol or whatever they call that manly stuff we’re supposed to be exuding. And musky. I don’t know what musk is but they used to have it in some cologne that made women crazy 20 years ago and I am sure it’s the secret ingredient in Axe.

13. Don’t ask if we’re really wearing that. Yes, we are. That’s why we put on these clothes. It’s Father’s Day and we get to dress ourselves. If we decide to wear the old, torn, paint-spattered jeans that feel like silk instead of cardboard, we have our reasons. We’ve been dressing ourselves since we were three and we don’t want anyone telling us we don’t know how to be big boys yet.

And, finally, hide the front section of the Sunday paper, so he doesn’t have to look at all the Bad Dads on the front page. Even if he’s not the guy in the prison jumpsuit, traditional Father’s Day coverage is still a downer.

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