I OWE, I OWE, TO DISNEYLAND WE GO!

I wrote this column in 1994, after a family trip to Disneyland. My daughter was nine and my son was five. 17 years later, we're returning to the Magic Kingdom, or as I like to call it: The Land of the Greedy Cartoon Mouse. Wish me luck.
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© 1994 Mark W. Mayfield

Back in the "Good Old Days," most American parents could pay for a trip to Disneyland without draining their bank accounts. (According to historians, the "Good Old Days" officially ended in 1976, when my generation graduated from high school and realized that we would soon have to get jobs and actually EARN our own money if we wanted to buy more bell-bottoms, Earth Shoes, 8-track tapes and incense.) But during the last several years, the world's premier theme park has gradually raised its prices to offset the skyrocketing cost of capturing and hiring the few clean-cut, well-mannered employees who still exist in North America. Consequently, a family trip to Disneyland now requires careful financial planning:

Financial adviser: So, Mr. Jones, tell me about your financial goals.

Client: My primary goal is to design a comprehensive savings strategy that will eventually yield the monetary assets I need to send my children to prestigious universities. I also wanna buy a really cool SUV, a shiny red speed boat and a humongous big-screen TV.

Financial adviser: With proper financial planning, those goals are easily attainable. Is there anything else?

Client: Well, there is one other thing. I've always wanted to take my family to Disneyland.

Financial adviser: DISNEYLAND!? You gotta be kidding! (Angrily closing his genuine eelskin briefcase) Listen, you moron, I'm a financial adviser, not a miracle worker!

So what's a fun-seeking, cost-conscious parent supposed to do? Do what my wife and I did: Simply convince your children that plenty of lucrative, fulfilling careers are available for people without college educations and head for Southern California, sometimes called "The Land of the Greedy Cartoon Mouse."

Immediately after arriving at the Happiest Place on Earth, we unhappily discovered that long lines and large crowds would prevent us from enjoying more than one or two attractions during our visit. We also discovered the importance of protecting our vulnerable body parts while approaching popular attractions, which were surrounded by other predatory packs of fun-seeking, cost-conscious tourists who used any means, including violence, to get a good spot in line.

Our first stop was Toontown, a strange and wonderful place full of colorful, wavy, surrealistic buildings that look like they were designed by Salvador Dali and Timothy Leary. It's an attraction that appeals to children, who enjoy its wacky silliness, and parents, who vaguely recall experiencing similar shapes and colors during a Grateful Dead concert in the mid 1970s.

By the time we fought our way through Toontown, nervously protecting our exposed body parts, we had only enough time for one more attraction. We chose the legendary Matterhorn. This classic roller coaster was designed by Hubert Horn, an eccentric genius who constantly worried that park visitors would scoff at his idea of a snow-covered alp in the middle of sunny, warm Southern California. His impatient assistant, who was sick of Hubert's constant whining and fretting, finally grabbed his boss by the neck and screamed, "Who cares what people think about your stupid ride?! It really doesn't MATTER, HORN!" The rest is history.

Although the Matterhorn is quite old, it's extremely safe. Unlike most traveling-carnival rides that are sloppily assembled by tattooed, substance-abusing ex-cons, the Matterhorn was carefully constructed by well-behaved, God-fearing ride builders of the 1950's. They were big, strong, sweaty, red-blooded American men with bulging biceps and short, neatly combed hair. They were honorable men who would go home after a hard day's work and proudly tell their families about another day on "The Horn." (Note for wimpy fathers: If roller-coasters scare you, avoid this attraction. After all, nothing is more pathetic than a grown man who’s screaming, crying and holding tightly to his wife before the ride even begins.)

Of course, there are many other wonderful attractions to experience in The Magic Kingdom, but we'll have to wait until our next visit, after we hock my great grandmother’s wedding ring.

Mark Mayfield (mark.mayfield@comcast.net) was extremely disappointed when he learned that the snow on the Matterhorn is fake.

COOL DAD JUST WANTS A FAIR SHAKE

In 2003, I wrote this column about the frustration of trying to participate in complicated handshakes with my teenage son and his friends. It was published in several California newspapers, including the Fresno Bee. (Thankfully, my son is a few years older now, so his handshakes are slightly less complex.)
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© 2003 Mark W. Mayfield

According to a recent survey, I am now one of “America’s Top Ten Cool Dads.” The survey, which polled two average American teenagers who happen to live in my house, included these questions:

1. Do most of your teenage friends believe that you have the coolest dad in America?
2. Do most of your teenage friends love and admire your dad because he’s able to interact with them on a juvenile level?
3. Are most of your teenage friends astounded by your dad’s semi-youthful appearance and adolescent sense of humor?
4. When most of your friends rave about your “incredibly cool dad,” do you agree with them?
5. In your opinion, does your father belong on the prestigious list of America’s Top Ten Cool Dads?

(Before participating in the survey, the teenagers received these instructions: “Please respond to each question truthfully, but remember that answering ‘no’ will mean that you’ll never again be allowed to borrow the car, that you’ll never again be allowed to stay out after 7:30 on Saturday nights, and that you’ll never again be allowed to use my telephone, eat my food, watch my TV, celebrate holidays with me, etc.”)

But despite my remarkable rapport with young people, I still don’t know how to correctly shake hands with my teenage son and his friends. It’s not as easy as it sounds. These days, shaking hands with a teenage boy is a whole different ball game. It’s a complicated, multi-part endeavor that takes approximately 25 minutes to complete–even longer if you make a mistake and have to start over.

When I was my son’s age, I knew only one handshake. It’s the one my father taught me, the good ol’ basic American handshake that greets friends, celebrates victories, seals deals and ends arguments. It’s a quick, simple gesture that involves nothing more than a firm grip, two or three vertical forearm pumps, and a smooth release. It varies only slightly when a man shakes hands with a woman, at which time he adjusts his grip pressure to approximately 40 percent of it’s maximum and reduces his up-and-down forearm travel to roughly half the distance required for an all-male handshake. (And while I’m on the subject of same-sex handshakes, let me make one thing perfectly clear: I believe that any man who enjoys watching a woman shake hands with another woman is a disgusting sicko who need professional counseling. Furthermore, I strongly support harsh punishment for those smut peddlers who operate seedy adult web sites that display provocative photos of women engaging in girl-to-girl handshaking. That’s all I’m going to say about the subject.)

Modern teenage boys aren’t satisfied with the primitive handshake of their fathers’ generation. They constantly invent new, creative, complex handshakes that twist, turn, spin, slide, bump, flip, slap and snap. Although these newfangled handshakes are entertaining to watch, they’re bad news for cool dads like me who attempt to perform them. To illustrate my point, I’ll now recount a recent embarrassing meeting with one of my son’s teenage friends.

Me: (Extending my right hand and flawlessly performing the first six parts of the official teenage-boy handshake) Wussup, dude? (Translation: What have you been doing lately, my pimply-faced teenage friend?)

Teenage boy: (Obviously surprised and impressed by my amazing ability to participate in the official teenage-boy handshake) Nothin’. (Translation: “I’m a lazy teenage boy who stuffs his face with junk food and plays video games all day.”)

Me: (Becoming extremely nervous because I suddenly forgot how to perform the next nine parts of the official teenage-boy handshake) That’s cool. (Translation: “That’s cool.”)

Teenage boy: (Laughing loudly because I mistakenly performed the fist-bump part of the handshake BEFORE the palm-slide part and AFTER the finger-snap part) See ya’ later, Mr. Mayfield. (Translation: What a doofus! You don’t deserve a spot on the prestigious list of America’s Top-Ten Cool Dads!)

Me: HEY, DUDE! PLEASE COME BACK AND LET ME TRY THE HANDSHAKE AGAIN! I’LL GET IT RIGHT THIS TIME!

In conclusion, here’s my sage advice for anybody who’s thinking about shaking hands with a teenage boy: Forget about it.

Friend me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MarkMayfield

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Are You Ready for Some Furball? (Football For Dummies)

For football fans, this is a wonderful time of year, full of college bowl games, NFL playoffs and then (dramatic pause) THE SUPER BOWL! It just doesn't get any better than this! But if you're one of those unfortunate folks who don't understand football, the next few weeks will be boring and, yes, even depressing. You'll be on the sidelines while your friends, family and significant others are having a great time watching football.

But cheer up! There's a way to enjoy all the football-related fun and festivities without actually understanding the game. Just grab a beer and watch this brief instructional video:



To see more stupid videos, please visit my YouTube channel:
www.YouTube.com/MollyMayfield

Follow me on Twitter: AmazingMarkimus

I RESOLUTELY RESOLVE TO MAKE REALISTIC RESOLUTIONS

The last day of the year is here, and I don't know about you, but I couldn't be happier to see 2009 ride off into the sunset. According to a new Associated Press poll, a majority of Americans are happy that 2009 is over. And a whopping 82% of respondents are optimistic about 2010. I hope they're right!

Yesterday I posted my New Year's column from 2002. Today I'm posting my New Year's column from 2001. I know, I know, I should've posted the older column first, but I completely forgot about it until this morning, which is why one of my New Year's resolutions for 2010 is to improve my memory. (I just hope I remember that resolution tomorrow.) Happy New Year!
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© December 2001 Mark W. Mayfield

I RESOLUTELY RESOLVE TO MAKE REALISTIC RESOLUTIONS

It’s hard to believe, but 2001 is history. (I don’t know about you, but I’m SO ready for 2001 to be history.) And that means it’s time for my inspirational New Year’s resolutions column! Let’s get started.

I resolve to limit my consumption of chocolate-chip cookie dough to three heaping tablespoons per week, unless I’m planning to do extra sit-ups, in which case I’ll eat as much as I want.

I resolve to stay calm when my wife says that I sometimes behave like a child. I resolve to not yell, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” after I fail to stay calm when my wife says that I sometimes behave like a child.

I resolve to not say, “You look like a slob!” when my son wears his baggy pants and unlaced sneakers. I resolve to not say, “You look like my son!” when I see a genuine slob.

I resolve to ignore my teenage daughter when she accuses me of being “too strict.”
I resolve to stick to my decision to ground my daughter for two years, revoke her driving privilege for three years, and make her perform two hours of strenuous military calisthenics every morning. (After all, such punishment is completely appropriate for a girl who didn’t come home until almost FOUR minutes after her curfew. An effective father can’t tolerate that kind of blatant disobedience.)

I resolve to remind myself that it’s only natural for a seven-week-old puppy to chew on expensive sheepskin slippers. I resolve to remind myself that it’s only natural for a seven-week-old puppy to have an occasional “accident” on the carpet. I resolve to remind myself that it’s only natural for a 43-year-old man to get really, really mad at a seven-week-old puppy.

I hate to do this, but I must reluctantly change horses in the middle of a stream.

One of the many valuable lessons I learned in columnist school is that digressing in the middle of a column is unacceptable. Such indecisiveness causes the reader to question the writer’s credibility. However, in this case, I have no other choice, because after writing the preceding resolutions, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to keep any of them. Of course, I could start the entire column over again, but if I did that, I won’t finish it before the kickoff of a very good college football game. Therefore, I will now continue the column with a few realistic resolutions.

I resolve to be more truthful in my columns, and I will start right now. I never actually attended columnist school. I lied, and I’m very ashamed of myself. However, I told the truth about the football game. It starts in ten minutes.

I resolve to stop using profanity. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a man who frequently uses naughty words, but sometimes, usually when my stupid lawnmower won’t start, a certain expletive slips out, and it’s a real doozy. It’s the same word that an angry coach might use during an argument with an umpire, the same word that a drill Sergeant might use to frighten new recruits. I also resolve to stop using dumb words, including “doozy,” and dumb expressions, including “change horses in the middle of a stream.”

I resolve to not read any book endorsed or written by Oprah Winfrey.

I resolve to not rob a convenience store while wearing a ski mask.

I resolve to not help hostile countries acquire weapons of mass destruction.

I resolve to not to allow my daughter to become an exotic dancer.

I hope that my noble New Year’s resolutions have inspired you to make a few of your own. For readers who can’t think of any, here’s a good suggestion: Resolve to leave a nice comment for your favorite blogger. His name is Mark Mayfield.

If you enjoy stupid videos, please visit my YouTube channel:
www.YouTube.com/MollyMayfield

Happy Holidays!

Twas three days after Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring except a very tired guy named Mark, who was drinking his second cup of coffee and trying to recover from a long holiday weekend full of family, fun, food and adult beverages. I hope everybody had a wonderful Christmas.



- Posted using BlogPress from my amazing iPhone 3GS.

Please visit
my YouTube channel:
www.YouTube.com/MollyMayfield

My Interview with Charlie Sheen

After his arrest for domestic violence, Charlie Sheen agreed to tell me his side of the story.

Have a Holly, Molly Christmas

Here's another Christmas column from the archives. I wrote this one back in 2001, when Molly, our hefty miniature dachshund, was just a tiny wiener-shaped bundle of energy. She is now a large, football-shaped bundle of fat.

After a rough start, this Christmas was a pretty good one for my family. The “rough start” was produced by our new puppy, Molly, an incontinent miniature dachshund who somehow escaped from her authorized sleeping area after my wife and I settled down for a long winter’s nap. The tiny creature then did some stirring all through the house until she found an unauthorized pooping area in the hallway, where she defiantly deposited a special little Christmas gift for her new master, which I discovered with my bare left foot at exactly 6:17 a.m. “Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Puppies,” I said to myself as I hopped down the hall on my right foot. If she weren’t so cute, I’d send her to a detention facility for delinquent wiener dogs.

The rest of the day unfolded much like Christmases past.

As always, my wife and I broke our mutual promise to “not buy anything for each other.” She pretended to be mad and surprised when she opened her gift, and I did the same when I opened mine. Neither of us was actually mad or surprised, because we break our mutual promise every year. Sometimes, breaking promises is an essential part of a healthy marriage.

As always, I received another wallet, which I’ll add to my growing collection of wallets from previous Christmases. I usually get about four years of service from a good wallet. They last so long because I never have enough money to stretch and disfigure them. Since 1977, I’ve received twenty-five wallets, but I’ve worn out only six. My current supply will last until I’m 119, at which time I will probably not remember what to do with a wallet. Of course, if I live that long, I’ll receive another seventy-six wallets, which will bring my lifetime total to 101. Perhaps I’ll donate my extra wallets to men who really need them, like the mechanic who repairs my wife’s car. He probably needs a dozen to hold my former money.

As always, generous friends and family members came bearing gifts of delicious holiday goodies. We have enough sugary treats to satisfy every hypoglycemic person in North America. We have several decorative tins of something that might be homemade fudge. We have several brightly wrapped loaves of something that might be pumpkin bread or fruitcake. We have several colorful platters of something that might be an assortment of Christmas cookies. Soon we’ll have something that might be five pounds of extra fat on our butts.

We also received lots of “specialty coffee,” and I couldn’t be happier about it. I firmly believe that a day without coffee is like a day without caffeine. The bags of French Roast, which I love, will be empty by mid January. The bag of hazelnut coffee, which I grudgingly tolerate when nothing else is available, will be in the pantry until September, when I suddenly realize that we’ve consumed all of our other coffee. (Mark’s helpful holiday tip for exhausted parents: If you need a quick, delicious, satisfying breakfast that will provide plenty of energy for cleaning up unauthorized pooping areas, I recommend three large mugs of French Roast coffee, four large chunks of something that might be chocolate-covered almond brittle, and two hefty slices of something that might be banana-nut bread. But work fast, because the resulting burst of energy will last only 23 minutes. After that, you’ll sleep on the couch for several hours.)

The day’s most entertaining moments were provided by a bottle of extra-strength ginseng, a gift from a Korean friend. He said that drinking it every day would make me “strong and virile.” (He must think I’m currently weak and impotent.) Since a guy can never have too much strength and virility, I swallowed twice the recommended dose of the awful-tasting stuff. Several minutes later, I did not feel “strong and virile.” I felt sick and dizzy. I felt dumb and gullible. I felt pale and sweaty. Fortunately, I was able to counteract the ginseng’s effects by drinking more coffee and eating another slab of something that might be pecan pie. I then felt energetic and nervous. As I write this column, I feel irritable and sleepy.

Despite a disobedient puppy, unnecessary wallets and a bad batch of ginseng, I wouldn’t trade my Christmas for anything. I hope you can say the same thing about yours.

After writing this column, Mark Mayfield ate a large piece of something that might be a festive holiday cheese log.

This column is copyright protected. Permission to reprint or electronically reproduce it in whole or in part is expressly prohibited unless prior written consent is obtained from Mark Mayfield