THE END OF TIME

Just in case you're a little too happy, Dr. Martin Rees has just posted his doomsday prediction on Long Bet, the web-based, "arena for competitive, accountable predictions," funded by Amazon founder, Jeff Bezos. The Cambridge cosmologist announced that humankind has a 50/50 chance of being extinct by 2100, (that's 2100 minus 7, borrow from the one, let's see, ten minus 7 -- that's in 93 years!). There are two questions I'd like answered.

First is, why do professional athletes not wear watches when performing their trade? With the exception of scuba divers, whose last breath depends on it, you never see sports figures wearing watches on the field. Off the field, they flash their Rolexes and Piagets for fat endorsements, but not while they're playing.

You won't see football players wearing watches. I remember Joe Namath wore a Timex after the game, but not during. You watch this Sunday--those big fat men will not know what time it is.

Bend It Like Beckham doesn't wear one, unless he's shooting an ad. A-Rod doesn't wear a watch. If I made $10,000 a minute, I'd wear a watch just to see how rich I was getting. The Shaq? No. Maria Sharapova looks great in a watch, but while on Center Court, her wrist sports only a sweat band. Maybe there's a watch under the sweat band.

You say, Rick, golfers wear watches. Golfers are not athletes. To be an athlete, you must be engaged in a sport. Golf is a game, like Trivial Pursuit. Pushing a quail egg around a lawn doth not an athlete make. Just because it utilizes 479 billion metric tons of insecticide and half the world's water supply, that doesn't make it a sport.

So, where was I? Oh, right. You say that marathoners wear watches. Yes they do. Thank you. May I remind you this is my story?

Anyway, the second question I'd like to have answered before humanity goes quietly into the night is: Are there any jobs left that don't require a computer? If you consider the modern cash register to be a computer, you'd be hard pressed to come up with any job that requires no computer. There are just two jobs that require no modern computers. Air traffic controller and president of the United States.

Air traffic controllers use computers recycled from old barroom Pong Games. The little white blips serve ATC personnel just fine. They're on the ground!

Presidents don't use computers either. Their speeches are written for them. Their intelligence is done by others. They live in a cocoon of misinformation provided by others. It is better they don't have Google. Take George Bush Senior, for example. Remember when he visited a supermarket and was astonished that groceries could be scanned? Those new fangled bar codes, which had been around for twenty years, had not penetrated the bubble of the Bush dynasty. Servants did their shopping.

But, back to the beginning, which is really the end. We need to take our computers and watches and look at the time we have remaining. Whether Bezos like Jeff, or bozos like George, we have no time to spare if we are to survive ourselves. 50/50 is good odds if you're flipping over who gets the cheesecake. Lousy if you're talking about survival of your species. I see from my watch, my time is up.

ENABLING THE DISABLED/ THE REBUTTAL

I've always complained about the surplus of disability spaces in parking lots. All the prime (and empty) parking spots are designated "disability." There they sit, unoccupied, as I drive off into the hinterlands in search of a oil-stained patch on which to store my car. Hiking back, I curse the stenciled blue wheelchairs that spoil the otherwise perfectly good parking spots.

Some lots have as many spaces for the wheel people as for bipeds. Except for the time I broke my foot and personally ticketed each illegally-parked car myself (after smacking their doors with my crutches), I have no patience being displaced by disabled no-shows. Even with the war in Iraq, there are not enough disabled people to fill all the empty disabled spaces that litter our parking lots.

And not to digress, but how 'bout those nice, wide, disability stalls where you could spread out your breakfast and read the paper while doing your business. How often have you sat on a wet, cramped seat, precariously balancing your coffee on the paper dispenser, knowing the spacious throne to your left lay vacant? Am I wrong?

And where are those stalls when you need them? Again, when I would hobble into the restroom on my crutches, the disabled stall would always be occupied. Peering under the stall door, holding your pee-pee for dear life, you'd see no crutches. The occupant, also peering under the stall door, could see your crutches and would be too embarrassed to to admit he'd selfishly usurped your stall. I once out-waited the jerk for a half-hour, just so I could plant my crutch in his crotch. But that was then.

Now, in another disability disgrace, a blind woman in Albany NY has raised the bar. She navigates around town using a seeing-eye horse. Great. Just one more inconvenience for me.

Not a full-size horse, mind you, but a miniature horse just 29 inches at the withers-- tipping the scales at just over 120 lbs. The horse replaced the blind lady's seeing-eye Labrador, after the dog was run over by the bus discharging him.

The seeing-eye horse snuggles, fetches, and leaves 6-pound dumps on public transportation, shag carpets, and the freshly-mopped classroom floors where the pony's blind master teaches special education.

While the blind woman misses her dog, her horse's abilities as a herd animal, help in predicting how an object is moving in relation to herself. Being a seeing-eye animal, the horse is forced to forego blinders, which in turn forces her to process too much information for a pasturized grazing animal. This can lead to skittishness, and sadly, stampedes.

And unfortunately, as a prey animal, the horse will take off at the slightest provocation, like dogs, cats, and daffodils --dragging the poor woman behind her. Once, she was dragged clear home to Schenectady. Thank God she couldn't see how close she came to the cars on the New York State Thruway.

But all this is a small price to pay for the love and companionship of the little pony, or so we are told.

To accommodate the horse, the city's fleet of 150 buses has been ordered to retrofit to larger, horse enabled disability ramps, and to start carrying bales of hay.

The bus company has until Jan. '08 to install salt licks. Public transportation riders are advised to wear hip boots.

SCOOPER POOPERS

It is getting truly embarrassing how often PNL, with its limited full-time staff (one --not counting its brain-dead Science Scribe) and it's limited resources (zero), out-scoops the New York Times, with its vast resources. In today's OP-ED section, they run a story about the silly new Lexus that parks itself--a story that PNL did last year (Park Me Elmo/ Dec. 1, 2006). I am sick and tired of reading my stories months later in the Times.

You might say, "Rick, in all fairness, more than one publication can do a story about self-parking cars." To that I respond, "Oh, shut up!"

PNL, as you know, is more reasonably priced than the Times, and home delivery is included. You won't find your PNLs all soggy at the bottom of your driveway! Delivered fresh almost daily, PNL gives you all the news that's fit to -- whatever -- without all that "reality" spin. But I digress. What was I talking about?

Oh yes. In the self-parking car article, the plagiarizer (whom I shall not name out of sheer magnanimity) says he employs the "bread-and-matzoh" method of parallel parking. If you can slide a bread slice between the bumpers of the fore and aft cars, that's one thing, he claims. But if you "break" the matzoh, you're good!

Gee, that's so funny I forgot to laugh. PNN had a much higher standard. In PNN parking, waxed dental floss is the true litmus test of determining whether you've squeezed into the smallest space possible. Last time I checked, dental floss is considerably thinner than even the thinnest matzoh. Moreover, that the floss needs to be waxed, tells you that the car- spacing was less than the diameter of the dental floss.

When waxed dental floss gets stuck between bumpers, only then can you call yourself a true parallel parker. I submit to you that the "dental standard" is the benchmark for a quality park job; not matzoh.

In pandering to the Jews of New York, I'm sure the matzo-metric was calculated to grab eyeballs and divert attention away from the fact that the story had already been covered by PNL. And though the "crunch" of the crumbling matzoh was, I'm sure, designed to add an aspect of auditory appeal, with no-one to hold the matzoh in place, it becomes a hypothetical mind game. The concept requires too many additional players and is, therefore, not "clean." The dental floss method requires only the driver.

Had the self-parking car been a Mazda and not a Lexus, the matzoh measure would have been more appropriate, if not more funny.

Enough. I have consulted my legal dept, and I assured me that the PNN piece pre-dates today's Times article by over 55 days. And where's the public outcry? While we haven't the resources to take on an organization as bloated as the Times, we are issuing the following warning:

"Stay off PNL's stories, or risk Rick canceling his home delivery."

VERY MOVING VIOLATIONS

AOL ran a stupid article on how to beat traffic tickets. There was all the usual stuff, like obsequiousness, groveling, and pleading ignorance. Every cop is aware of these ploys and will have you spread-eagled and batoned before you can say the word "Vaseline."

I thought I'd make my own lists of "do's" and "don'ts" of what to do when stopped for traffic violations.

DO's to say as you roll down your window.

1. Good morning/afternoon/evening officer. Have you lost weight recently?
2. Hey, nice haircut. Who do you use?
3. Would you like to see my breasts? (best if you're female).
4. I think I just dropped a hundred dollar bill. Could you help me find it?
5. My wife saw you last night at the Laptop Lounge. Want your tip money back?
6. What a shiny gun. Mind if I remove my teeth and gum the barrel? (male cops only)
7. $200 Dunkin Gift Card interest you?
8. May I say you're the best looking arresting officer I've had the honor to meet.
9. My son fighting in Falluja looked just like you-- until we got the "knock at the door."
10. Yes officer. I am fast. Want your gun back?

DON'TS to say as you roll down your window

1. Care for a toke?
2. I was blinded by your flashing lights.
3. Go easy on the donuts, badge-boy.
4. I like your car. It reminds me of a toy I had as a kid.
5. Yes officer. My radar detector ID'd you as a wimp.
6. $20 Dunkin Gift Card interest you?
7. Is your mind made up, or can we work on it?
8. Speed is relative, Officer Einstein.
9. I'd offer you a drink, but I'm down to my last three fingers.
10. My car won't go 100. It wouldn't even pass inspection.

Personally, I've had an abysmal record trying to beat tickets. I once got a ticket on the Southern State for going 551/2 mph in a 55. I approached the officer's "pace" car (which was going exactly 55 with a string of cars trailing behind him) going 1/2 mph faster than he was. Silly me thought it impossible to get ticketed for breaking the speed limit by a half mile an hour. It had taken me 20-minutes to patiently inch past the patrolman. Next thing I knew, I was pulled over and handed a $90 ticket. I said, "You're giving me a ticket for 1/2 mph?" He said no. He was giving me a ticket for being a smart ass. I thanked him for removing my handcuffs, and assured him he'd never see me in his county again.

Another time, while driving through South Carolina, a fat Redneck officer stopped me for driving 31 in a 25. After pleading ignorance to any posted speed, the cop pointed to a rusted, bullet-ridden sign 50 yards off the side of the road covered in Spanish moss. I informed him that the good Yankee cops up North would never ticket for so small a trifle, hoping he would remember who won the war. Officer Beauford then upped the ticket to 40 in a 25 and splayed me over the back of my rental car. Northerners should never phrase their arguments in Civil War terms while whistling through Dixie.

The bottom line is, treat Smokies like their human. Bribe unto them, as you would like to be bribed yourself.

IS YOUR DOG GAY?

The stupid radio station my daughter listens to ran a contest called "How to tell your dog is gay."

Some of the phoned-in entries were:

1. If his wardrobe includes pastel kerchiefs.
2. If, instead of barking, he bitches at the mailman.
3. If he thinks "Milk-Bone" is a command.
4. If he sits for a liver snap, but lies down for a Cosmo.
5. If he licks his olives while sniffing his martini glass.

Not terribly funny, but there they are. As a rule, I don't do gay jokes -- not because they stereotype individuals -- but because there are apparently no straight men left. To listen to women, all men are gay. I read today that 51% of women live without a spouse, so I guess this assessment shouldn't be surprising. But what about the other 49%?

Women have told me that all those men you see on TV: football players, World Federation wrestlers, clergymen, construction guys, Rush Limbaugh, Tom Delay, David Letterman, Anderson Cooper, and of course, George Bush, are all gay. Actors are all gay. Businessmen are all gay. Lawyers and doctors? Gay. Crime investigators. Gay. Farmers? Just ask the sheep.

In fact, when pressed, women say virtually all males in the animal kingdom are gay.

How could I have missed this? I never even knew my roommate in college was gay. So I took a crash course in Gay Spotting offered by the Junior League, and I think I'm getting the knack of it now. They suggested I start small, so I started with my pets.

For instance, I have a parrot who not only perches, he gums perches. I don't know if he's gay, but his lime-green plumage, his long black nails, and his Freudian red beak would look smart leading any Gay Pride Parade.

My daughter had a goldfish named Bulgie. For years I thought the bulges were his eyes. How could I have known he swam upside down? A watched fish never fornicates, so it's hard to know for sure. I tried to investigate this, but grew bored after several months. I did notice Bulgy getting frisky with the macho deep sea diver who would rise to the top of the tank, pass wind, and return to his pink gravel yard.

In retrospect, I'm thinking Bulgie wore tight jeans in another life.

My daughter rents a horse named Blondie. Foolish me thought he was named after the dessert. His manhood could be mistaken for a fifth leg. The muscular stallion looks great in stirrups and wears more leather than a saddle. Upon reflection, if he's not gay, he ought to be.

Both my poodles, Sammy and Petey, hump in public, though I tell my wife that this means nothing. Just because they hump each other doesn't make them lovers. They hug trees too, and that doesn't make them environmentalists.

On Halloween, Sammy will tolerate his diamonique tiara longer than Petey, but any notion that bejeweled dogs in crowns are gay is, of course, homophobic. But maybe I have to rethink this.

Finally, there was our rabbit, Melville. He was named Melville because of his novel Moby Dick. As a bunny, Melville would be expected to have an elevated libido, however his promiscuousness was out of the box. Looking back, the creative things he did to his chicken wire still make me blush years after we cut him loose and sold him back to the pet store.

If I am the only straight male out there, so be it. Stereotypical of the straight males of yore, I'm just waiting for the next shoe to drop.

NAMING NAMES

I have a car named "Landy," a car named "Bluey," and a car named "Sporty." The Land Rover, the Hyundai, and the Miata, respectively, were named instantly, as were my dogs, Sammy and Petey, my daughter, Sara, and my wife, Hon. There was no hysteria over choosing special, fancy names: no pretentious, precious solipsisms, no books of a million names to anoint your child. Indeed, deeds and misdeeds are all I believe distinguishes oneself -- not labels.

People give their kids all kinds of ridiculous names now. Children come with names like "Appomattox" or "Chutney." One pre-school class in town had the following first names: Cierra, Makynzi, Quinlynn, Creighton, Ruger, Flower, Dacoda, Irelynd, Oleo, Brooklynn, Blaze, Kryslyn, Laken, Cinsere, Solace, Destiny, McKaty, Quillon, Griffen, Bane, Tiara Rose, and Dusk (he has a sister named Dawn).

Rounding out the class, there are the Breeze twins. The two little breezes are known collectively and individually as "Breeze." Don't you want to just smack that parent?

Imagine the teacher who has to remember these ridiculous names, let alone spell them? And the little brats get indignant when you mispronounce their names. I'm sorry but any parent who names his kid "Oleo" needs to go to jail.

I have a terrible problem with forgetting names. If your name is Bob, I have at least a fighting change of remembering your moniker. "Bob" I can remember forwards and backwards. But call yourself Lattifa, and I'll be calling you "Hey You," for the rest of your life. I have a friend named Bud, which is a little esoteric, but I can remember it because he is my buddy. His wife, Pat, I can remember because I always -- bad example.

When my kid was born, the doctor said, "It's a Girl!" and I thought that a fine name. But Hon felt otherwise. She wanted her to be a Rachel, or a Rebecca -- but I was sure that was too many different letters, so we settled on Sara. Sara is easy to remember, and when I call for her in the school nurse's office, eight girls raise their hands to go home. Any girl whose name I can't remember I call Sara, knowing I have a 1-in-4 chance of being right. No, I believe names should be simple, common and if at all possible, descriptive.

Having said this, I do believe in naming everything. While some would have you believe only animals need naming, at my house the trees, the bushes -- even the driveway has a name (Blacky). Indoors, my toaster (Toasty), my spatula (Spatch) and my TV (Aaron) all respond to their names (or the remote) and help to give my house (Boxy) a homey feeling. I can sit writing a letter by the fireplace (Loggy), go out the front door (Dorey) and drop it in the mailbox (Letterman).

I have a special hammer named Wrenchie, so-named because I wrenched my back once using it. It gets confusing sometimes when asking for it, but Wrenchie has bent over many a nail, and when it isn't hanging from my special tool belt (Tooley Galooley), it is nicely stored in the basement (Count Basey).

Hon is even worse than I am, having named each of her ten figures. I would never do anything as compulsive as that. I'm quite content group-naming my digits Lefty and Righty, and letting them fight it out as to whose turn it is for a given task.

Names are a source of great concern these days, with people getting hung up over who called whom Macaca, or Moktada. Hakuna Matata, meaning "no worries for the rest of your lives," is definitely NOT their "problem-free philosophy." Whether you're Senator Allen or a Shia Henchman, you must be careful what you call people simply named Mark Stark or Saddam Hussein. Mark Stark rhymes. Yell "Hussein" in Iraq, and half the crowd will answer, "Yes?" I like that simplicity.

Had Joseph and Mary known what people would scream every time they hit their Lefty with a Wrenchie, they'd have never named their son Jesus H. Christ! For me, names worth remembering are names that are memorable. That's why I'm voting for the Democrat, Iraq Hussein Osama, in '08.

CRITICALLY UPLIFTING

Why am I harangued so? Women readers keep asking me to comment on the new stick-on bras that are the rage today. Well, if you hadn't noticed, PNL is striving to be a classy, lifestyle column and not just another titillating tabloid. Besides, I am trying to be a cynical critic, and silly sophomoric subjects will erode my negative credibility.

Having said this, I don't see what all the furor is all about. "Chicken cutlets," as the new strapless gel bras are referred to on the street, are used to make perpendicular what would ordinarily point to your shoes. New fashions require support systems that work "behind the scenes," if you will.

This is nothing new. Architects have striven to hide all evidence of load-bearing supports for centuries. Whether buildings, bridges, or bras, the prizes have always gone to those who can seemingly defy gravity with grace. Conversely, structural failure has been on people's minds every since Osama bin Laden watched Janet Jackson on Superbowl XXXVIII and emailed the clip to George Bush.

Women assume men want floaters. I don't know why. I've never liked being pointed to -- whether by my teachers in school -- or by colleagues in the work force. Breasts outnumber men two to one, and there are as many mammaries out there as there are men and women combined. I am not overly tall. At five foot eleven, the last thing I want is to have them all pointing at my nose.

I grew up on John Gunther travel documentaries and remember as a child being quite turned on by the pancakes dancing around the fire. I developed a taste for tribal aesthetics before I could even read. Early on I learned that that which does not point to the center of the Earth, is probably not real. This sensitivity not only helped me through anthropology, but physics and middle age as well.

The history of the bra is a history of pain, starting with whalebone corsets that stiffened the entire female form, right through to underwire bras that mimicked the medieval flying buttresses of Notre Dame. Though less comfortable than cheese cutters, these push up devices strove to make mountains out of molehills. In every case, Mother Nature, herself a bra-burner, punished those who would mock the Earth's gentle but inexorable tug.

To listen to the advertising, the size-enhancing, self-adhesive, backless, strapless, gel bras with cleavage-control are just the thing for slipping bust lines. The stick-on silicone supporters are supposedly perfect for the office, the prom, or the second wedding -- and are especially effective for quick fixes -- like broken straps or leaky sinks.

Female readers tell me that cutlets are not for the "full-figured" woman, however, and as such, there should be warning labels: "Do not attempt to use these devices if you are equal to or greater than a 44-D."

Common sense would dictate that the Brooklyn Bridge could not go "strapless" for long. However, women are not always the best judge of their own size, and wishful thinking causes many potential "cutlet" customers to chicken out.

Cutlets are also not for those with nipple rings -- for reasons that should be obvious. As a rule of thumb, maintaining the suction is critical to maintaining the deception: break the seal, and it's a whole new deal.

Removing the devices has been problematic in some instances, and there is one documented case of a Best Supporting Actress who lost a nipple to her gel bra. Anyone who tells you to "pull it off swiftly like a bandaid," should be ignored.