So I'm driving through Clifton, New Jersey the other day when I come to a stoplight. I'm behind some punk in a Honda, who I'm sure is a horrible driver--as are all people that own and operate motor vehicles in New Jersey. Some awful noise is emanating from car. It could hardly qualify as music, but I'm sure the 18 year-old Sam Goody employee that sold this ass his $18.99 CD full of awful bleeps and bloops represented it as such.

Now, we were hardly in a residential neighborhood. In fact, I believe this street we were sitting on bordered a cemetery on one side and some kind of warehouse or warehouse-looking, low-rent motel on the other. As we sat at the light (one of those overly-long stops out in suburbia that makes absolutely no sense), a cop made a left and drove past the Honda and myself in the opposite direction. I watched as he drove by, always self-conscious that I am somehow violating some Jersey law by just sitting there in a blue SUV. When I was sufficiently sure he wasn't going to stop and bust me for trafficking in methamphetamine or chewing gum after 10 PM (there are some weird laws in this state), I focused my attention back on the red light in front of me.

Suddenly, in my rearview I caught site of flashing red lights and white reverse indicators. I looked back over my shoulder only to see the cop reversing back down the street right towards me. I started to go over everything in my mind that I could have possibly done. Maybe... and before I could even think of anything, he was by me and screeching to a halt beside our buddy in the Civic.

The cop leaned his head out of the window, extended his arm, made a pincher out of his forefinger and his thumb, and slowly twisted his wrist counterclockwise. The awful Spice Girls racket streaming out of Mr. Danceteria's window was squelched in an instant. The sound of crickets mixed with the soft putt-putt of the pillowy white smoke trailing out of his exhaust pipe. The cop pulled his appendage back into his car, zipped up his window and slowly rolled away.

Listening to the trooper's tires crush tiny pebbles beneath their mass, I realized that I had seen suburban justice in action. No longer was the enemy a knife-wielding subway pusher, or a suicidal, PCP-crazed lunatic with a hostage, but a tasteless, Euro-trash music listening economy sedan owner. This is the land where firemen actually pull cats out of trees. This is the land where the most serious call for cops in a given month is busting up a teenage basement party after the neighbor complains about "that damn hippity-hop music these kids are always playing."

It's not that I'm disparaging anything that our law enforcement professionals do, but with the whole 9/11 anniversary coming up soon, it's been on my mind. It's just shocking the priorities that exist depending on where you are.

So I'm reading my Esquire, and just after finishing an article about the hoo-haw man himself, Al Pacino, I run across an ad in the back for the modern fat-loss miracle, Hydroxycut. Damn, I thought to myself, all I have to do is mix some shitty tasting powder into my morning glass of water and I'll instantly become Mr. Olympia? Sign me up!

So , I took a look at the guy in the ad who apparently turned himself from a pale, chinless blob into some dude with a tan that George Hamilton would drool over, and a body with more muscles than your average Phish fan has brain cells. Then I looked closer...

First, I can appreciate that the tan, buff guy gets the chick, while his former incarnation is left lonely and blue (see the background?) Second, he has apparently also gotten a job, judging by the fact he is now wearing a dress shirt and a tie rather than some old gym shorts. I also find it odd that he used to smile on one side of his face, and now smiles on the other. Now, I'm starting to get a little suspicious. Did they maybe stick the woman in the low-cut black dress in the picture to throw us off the trail? Is it like a magician using misdirection so you don't see him stashing his silk handkerchief in his pocket? How, may I ask, is this even remotely the same person?

This testimonial comes from a dude named Chris Monberg. Granted he lives in California, the land of miracles, but he claims to have gone through this incredible transformation in only eight weeks! I wonder if eight weeks is long enough to not only completely change your body, but also swap heads with some other guy? As far as I know, this technology doesn't exist just yet.

I can't believe these companies have the balls to make these claims. If I could sit my soft, pasty ass down at the dining room table every morning, down a glass of cloudy liquid and come out looking like Arnold two months later, wouldn't I do it--wouldn't everyone? I guess that's the whole point of these outrageously ridiculous ads. It must be nice to not be regulated by the FDA. Snake oil anyone?

I understand that there's this new influx of men's magazines out there. I used to subscribe to FHM, but let it lapse after I realized it was meant for dudes who were still going on spring break and doing bonghits in their dorm rooms. Even if this wasn't the case, it was embarrassing carrying that glossy mag with the half-naked woman on the cover into the elevator of my building that's filled with doctors and lawyers and French people. I could almost feel the brain cells popping as I read yet another article about how to get the wet look in the age of the dry look. Besides, the only interesting parts of the magazine could be found on their Web site.

Prior to this I had a subscription to Details. My subscription ran out right before they left on hiatus to "overhaul" their direction. It seems this plan involved filling the pages with lots of men's underwear ads, articles about toning your glutes and interviews with Bruce Weber about his titillating all-male wrestling Abercrombie campaign. Sorry, not in my interest pool.

So this leads me to my subscription to Esquire. I remember this magazine sitting by the toilet in my house growing up. Every book I read claims that it was originally published in part in this magazine. The covers are sure not to embarrass me in public, and the articles tend to have some sort of journalistic or artistic slant. Overall I was very happy with the magazine's content, and found the $9 for a year's worth more than satisfactory.

So the time comes to re-up and I wait. They try to entice you with lower rates. They try to guilt you by telling you that you're practically raping them. They try to shame you by telling you that you'll be uninformed and uncultured if you don't renew. Then they throw the free gift at you.

I remember being about twelve and ordering my first Sports Illustrated subscription. I'm not sure if I was more excited to get the magazine or the free football phone. And this wasn't one of those punk football phones that folded in half and lay on your desk like a dead trout. Nope this was the real thing, complete with pulse/tone switch and life-sized laces. Remember? (Mine was a Raider phone, not a Jets phone.)

It's not as if I expected anything too fancy from the folks at Esquire. After all, I realize that this is a monthly mag that charges a whopping $9 for a year's subscription. I don't remember how much a year of S.I. cost in 1984, but I'm sure it was quite a bit more. I didn't expect anything as cool as the football phone, or even the horrendous digital logo watch with the fake button that does nothing other than provide one more hole through which water can invade. In fact, I completely forgot about the free gift until a plain manila envelope showed up with a crooked label affixed to it. I furrowed my brow, listened for ticking, opened it, and found this:

A friggin' paper thing with a copper brad through the middle of it. I think I may have made this exact thing in fourth grade to show the whole ROY G BIV phenomenon. It's literally a piece of thick paper with a bunch of outdated drinks printed on it. The thing rotates awkwardly to show you the ingredients in classic concoctions like a Brandy Alexander and Dubonnet Cocktail. Awesome! I can't wait to show off my bartending skills to all my friends. It's not as if I don't have a perfectly useful bartending guide sitting on my shelf in case I need to figure out how to make a Gin 'n Tonic. Seriously, you'd think a classy mag would know better.

Oh well, maybe I'll wear it around my neck like a medallion so the next clueless bartender I run into can get an eyeful of my cardboard friend and the secret to making a good Harvey Wallbanger.

I'm almost positive I'm going to create some sort of horrible abscess in my cheek that will eventually grow into a gaping hole through which I will be able to pop ping pong balls or those giant Gobstoppers. Why can't I stop eating these damn sunflower seeds?

Aside from the fact that I crave salt like a drooling Mr. Ed, I think I may have figured out why these things are so addictive. For us neurotic, yuppie types, the thought of putting a pinch of dirt between our lip and gums is akin to wearing work boots with shorts and knocking up our sisters. What are we, giant bikers with mom tattoos and our old lady ridin' on the back of our hogs in leather vests with no shirt? No, we're white-bred city dwellers with better sense than to stick a chunk of dirt in our mouths. Sticking a bunch of seeds in our cheek and pulling out the giant plastic cup gives us all the thrill without any of the danger. We're the same people who puffed on candy cigarettes while the real rebels smoked behind the gym and talked about stealing porn magazines from the 7-11. It makes me feel like a tough guy. It gives me that edge--no matter how fake it is.

There's just something manly about a cup filled with saliva and shells. Boys spit. Women don't. During college I remember several sunflower tutorials with woman friends. They managed the one-seed-at-a-time technique, but mostly drew the line at the saliva-coated ball of silt and spit cup that eventually became the perfect target for a roommate's drunken, 3 A.M. sprawl. Again, unlike the real stuff, shells were a whole hell of a lot easier to clean up the morning after (and smelled a heck of a lot better).

The nerdiest issue behind all of this is that I'm almost tempted to switch to real dip in order to save myself from the incredible amount of fat and calories in these seeds. It's amazing that as I get older I'd trade throat and lip cancer for a trimmer waistline. Metabolism aside, I can't help but think that one of these days I'm going to break down and actually try one or all of the new varieties of David Sunflower Seeds, which include such tempting (and not artificial at all) salsa, bbq, ranch and nacho flavoring.

The funniest thing is that the seed company has seen fit to include instructions on how to eat their seeds like a pro. Talk about feeding an addiction. I could just see a pack of Kools with 10-step instructions on the side:

1. open pack
2. remove cigarette
3. put it in your mouth
4. create flame from lighter or match
5. hold flame to tip of cigarette
6. suck reeeal hard
7. force smoke down into your lungs
8. hold it there (trying not to cough or choke)
9. exhale (creating rings or exhaling through your nose earns bonus points)
10. repeat

Meanwhile, I keep promising myself that I will quit this dirty habit before they (whoever they may be) discover that these things cause oral sprouting or bizarre spore attacks. I have changed to those little paper Dixie cups with the choo-choo jokes on the side in order to limit my intake and remind me that I'm not really as tough as I think I am.

So I finally pulled the plug on any expectation that I'll find a job in the near future. I bit the bullet and signed up for unemployment. I've gone on the dole. I'm riding the gravy train. It's not as though I haven't been paying unemployment insurance for years now, but I somehow feel like this is the final straw. This is it. I'm done. Finished. But not really.

I'm just honestly surprised how easy it was to get money from the government. After trying every number in my Yellow Pages listed under the New York State Department of Labor, (and reaching half of the population of Chinatown) I dialed up unemployment in my trusty Web browser and got the 980 number. I went through some yes and no questions and finally got a human on the phone. He talked to me for about two minutes, basically making sure I was smart enough to press a one or a zero at the correct time, said thank you and hung up.

Today I received my introduction letter in the mail, along with a letter telling me what my weekly take-home pay is going to be and a letter telling me a date I have to show up at the unemployment office to talk to some poor councelor who will have no idea what I do or what I want to be when I grow up.

I'll probably nod a lot and refuse the styrofoam cup of stale coffee. I'll compliment him on his walrus mustache and admire the way his vaguely country-western beige shirt offsets his ruddy, pockmarked complexion. I can imagine a little swearing fit brought on by a broken pencil tip or ball-point failure, followed by a mumbled apology and a mini-diatribe about the pressures of his job. Then another apology. After all, I'm sure rule #1 in the UI handbook is to not complain about the rigors of work to the newly unemployed. I'll give him a knowing squint, but will really be thinking about the hideous freeform sculpture I just encountered outside the Starbucks downstairs. I'll claim to be looking for a job (which I am) and claim that nobody has called me back to offer me a job (which they haven't). He'll sigh and check the second box from the right with every question I answer. Then he'll look up, give me the once over and turn the paper over and scribble something illegible to anyone but him and one remote viewer in an unmarked room in a CIA field office in Quatar. Despite the axiom that guys in lifts and bad rugs are inherently untrustworthy, I sheepishly ask him what he wrote down. He slowly turns the sheet of paper back over and mumbles a very suspicious "nothing." Now I have a dilemma on my hands. Do I call him on it, or do I just let it go? The guy could have been reminding himself to pick up some arugula on the way home. He may have just remembered that Josie Bissett starred in the TV movie Baby Monitor: Sound of Fear. I go with the more realistic scenario that he thought I projected poorly or came off as snobby in my monochromatic, eggplant t-shirt and v-neck sweater combo. Maybe I am completely unemployable. Maybe he has recommended that the governement rescind their offer for free money. I have a lifestyle to maintain, dammit! "Um, so I saw you write something down. I mean, your hand was moving and ink was, well, coming out and everything..." He'll probably straighten his papers, knock them together on the desk, and dismiss me with a "Good day Mr. Hipster." I'll obsess over his note for the next week until my check shows up, and then I'll come to the conclusion that I'd rather sit at home sweating out my future than be stuck in one that provides no hope.

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