A TRUCKSTOP RESTROOM
AIR FRESHENER RESPONDS
TO HIS CRITICS
Lately, the public has been starting to question my effectiveness as a restroom air freshener. Last night, for example, a man with "Denise 4 Ever" tattooed on his upper arm and (apparently) a serious gastro-intestinal disorder beat on my plastic casing and cursed at my inability to make the restroom here at Sally's I-40 Super Gas 'n' More smell like freshly laundered linens. I would like to address a few points:

1. I am not responsible for the replacement of, nor the quality of, my scent pouches. If I could replace my scent pouches, I wouldn't be an air-freshener, would I? No, I'd be Carlos the janitor or Paula the gift shop clerk, both of whom are supposed to check my scent level on a weekly basis. You would sooner expect your car to change its own oil. I do one thing -- freshen the air. Give me the tools to do that.

2. The American diet is changing, severely testing my outdated air-freshening technology. Since I was installed in 1986, fast-food consumption in this country has increased 10-fold, especially among the truck-stop restroom frequenting demographic. There are consequences from this, from an epidemic of adult-onset diabetes to, yes, an increased strain on the entire truckstop restroom infrastructure.

3. Fresh air is a team effort. I am fighting an insurgency here, if you will, and like our beleagured troops in Iraq, I need help. When Paula and Carlos check off the hourly "restroom cleaning checklist" on the door without actually running a mop across this filthy floor, they are leaving me to fight this war alone. I don't care what Rumsfeld says; troop strength does matter.

4. Lastly, I turn the hot glare of the spotlight onto to you, the public. Standards in this country have declined tragically over the past century, from our schools to our elected officials to our expectations of restroom cleanliness. There was a time not so long ago when a feces-stained mirror would have had you people demanding to speak to the truckstop manager. Now, you simply shrug it off, or, worse, have simply abandoned the notion of using a truckstop restroom altogether. Like the American inner-city of the 1960s, you have written off my colleagues -- the sink, the toilet, the condom machine and the towel dispenser -- and me. Shame. Shame.

But even if I did have fingers to point, I would not be pointing them right now. We don't play the "blame game" here at Sally's I-40 Super Gas 'n' More (except for you, Paula and Carlos; I do blame you a little bit). I just want you to understand that even the best maintained air freshener in the cleanest truckstop restroom can only do so much when a 300-pound trucker who consumes nothing but hot wings, Funyuns and coffee comes in and unpacks his suitcases, if you know what I mean. This is a war without end. I do not take nights, weekends and holidays off. You may have given up, but I have not. I think it was the philosopher Epictetus who said "The greater the difficulty the more glory in surmounting it." I'm sure he probably wasn't talking about truckstop restroom air fresheners, but does that matter? Do not scorn me, but do not pity me, either. I come to you seeking only one thing -- understanding. If you cannot give me that, then our society has problems far worse than I, a truckstop restroom air freshener, ever imagined.

UNCOMFORTABLE QUESTIONS ABOUT
"THIS OLD HOUSE"
06: It is appropriate, when children are dying of hunger in Darfur, to pay $25,000 for a stove?
05: Do any of those roofers have their green cards? Seriously. Do any of them?
04: Is it really historic preservation when you turn an old horse barn into a 21st-century multi-media entertainment center?
03: When Norm Abram and Bob Vila see each other at Le Cirque, do they say hello, or do they just ignore each other?
02: When was the last time they restored a house that someone who, you know, wasn't a frickin' billionaire could afford to live in?
01: Will someone besides me please acknowledge the intense sexual tension between master plumber Rich Trethewey and contractor Tom Silva?

ASK THE GREAT EMANCIPATOR
Our 16th president, Abraham Lincoln, offers advice on matters both grave and frivolous. (Note: While he is an attorney, President Lincoln is not a licensed therapist.)

Dear Mr. Lincoln,
There's a guy at work who has terrible B.O., but we're too embarrassed to say anything to him. What should we do?
During my first term in the legislature, there was a fella there whose odor suggested that he had some sort of falling out with the soap and the water, if you get my meaning. Granted, baths were pretty infrequent in those days, let alone clothes washing. But to put it bluntly, he smelled as though he had misplaced a dead skunk somewhere on his person and could not seem to find it. We tried subtle tactics, such as secreting sachets of coriander and sage into his jacket pockets when he was not looking. Then we encircled his desk with crushed lime powder in hopes of containing the stench. He never took the hint. We became so fed up that we wrestled him into a sack coated with lye soap and dunked him into the Sangamon River until his effluvium no longer offended. So, you can always try that.

Mr. President,
what's your recipe for summer fun?
Growing up, summer was a wondrous time spent frolicking down in Hobson's Creek, attending ice-cream socials and taking long lazy naps under the shady elm tree.... Boy, oh boy, you people are something else. You have no idea what summer was like in the 1820s, do you? I'll tell you: It was like living in Satan's jockstrap. Every morning I would awake, drenched in sweat and covered with mosquito bites, and curse the Lord for not taking me in my sleep. Sometimes a bear would wander into the cabin and walk off with one of the little ones. So it wasn't exactly like a Beach Boys song, okay? What's my recipe for summer fun? How about you just sit back in your air-conditioned, bear-free home of the 21st century and shut your stupid piehole.

Dear President Lincoln,
I'm thinking about quitting my $150,000-a-year job at the law firm and going to art school. I figure I can move back in with my parents. What do you think?
Oh, joyous day! Another productive member of the work force has decided to forgo all that and indulge in her desire to paint fancy pictures of sailboats. Thank goodness my people tamed the savage wilderness so you could throw an $80,000 college education down the crapper. So, yeah, I'm just crazy about the idea. Because if the world needs anything, it's another unemployed artist. Someone's gotta sit in the coffeehouse all day pontificating about the death of culture and the latest Internet conspiracy theories. It might as well be you.

President Abraham Lincoln's column is published in more than 300 newspapers. Send your questions to motownnord@hotmail.com.

GIGANTIC
I have fond memories of the Pixies song "Gigantic," which is unusual, I think, given that the song is, as best I can tell, about two strangers f--king in a public park. But I didn't know that at the time these fond memories were being brewed. It was the summer of 1992, and my brother, Andrew, as he was wont to do at the time, had sent me a cassette tape containing songs that he felt I should be listening to. I was living in Saginaw, Michigan, then, which, in those pre-Internet times, might as well have been in the outer rings of Saturn.

Still in college and still "cool," Andrew sent me these musical care packages so I would not fall hopelessly out of touch. I didn't know much about the Pixies beyond the fact that they had a pasty lead singer named Black Francis who wrote barbed songs about mutilation and debasement that he sang in an urgent, whiny voice. But "Gigantic" was not like most Pixies songs. It was bassy and low and sung by a woman whose voice had been scarred by whiskey and cigarettes. I immediately took to it.

I used to pop the casssette in my bulky '80s-vintage Walkman and queue up "Gigantic." It was an eerie, sinister song that opened with a simple bass line -- DuDuDuDuDuDah DuDuDuDuDuDah -- and a woman's ethereal wail -- aaaaaaaaaaah aaaaaaaah aaaaaaaah -- that was the perfect accompaniment for a solitary walk on a summer evening.

What was it about? I've never had an ear for lyrics. I can make out the first few words of a stanza, but then I fall hopelessly behind. "And this I know/His teeth were white as snow/What a gas it was to see him/Walk her every day/Into a shady place..." Then I was lost. Then the song picks up again. "A big big ..." Dog? A dog? Is this about a dog? It's about a dog. He's walking his dog. I guess.

It didn't really matter. I just liked the way the song played out as I sauntered through the neighborhood, the summer sun slowly fading to the west, the sky turning from red to deep blue to black. The summer days were incredibly long in central Michigan, the horizon still showing signs of light as the clock crept toward 10 p.m.

"Gigantic" was my anthem for that summer, when I was still struggling to succeed in my first job out of college, still in love with my first serious girlfriend, still looking ahead to a bright future rather than looking back on a mediocre past. Years later -- four more jobs, three more apartments, five more failed relationships later -- I learned what "Gigantic" is actually about. And I didn't really care.

HOW I CAN TELL THAT MY FATHER,
BOB, IS NOT THE FAMOUS INVENTOR
AND STATESMAN BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
06: Perhaps most obvious, my father does not respond when I shout "Ben!" or "Hey, Mr. Franklin!"
05: Ben Franklin was born in 1706 and died in 1790; Bob was born in 1928 and is still very much alive.
04: Franklin's expertise was in electric conduction and metallurgy. Bob is more of a structural engineer.
03: Bob's favorite TV programs are "The Rockford Files" and "Becker," while Franklin was not known to be a television enthusiast.
02: Famous quotes:
Franklin -- "Wish not so much to live long as to live well."
Bob -- "Has someone been fooling with the thermostat?"
01: Franklin negotiated a key alliance with France and was massively popular in the salons of Paris; Bob finds the French "lazy" and "only in it for themselves."

HE'S GOT TROUBLES: SEVERAL
WAYS THAT TIGER WOODS IS
JUST LIKE YOU AND ME
06: A paid spokesman for Buick, Tiger receives an unlimited supply of the automaker’s cars. But he is conflicted, as his car of preference is a Mercedes-Benz.
05: Like many Americans, Tiger has trouble learning foreign languages. This has frustrated his efforts to learn Swedish, the native tongue of his wife, lingerie model Elin Nordegren.
04: Because, with tournament winnings, endorsements, appearance fees and merchandising contracts, he earns more than $2 million a week, Tiger constantly worries that his income is fully accounted for tax purposes.
03: As the owner of a private jet, Tiger has been absolutely murdered by the sharp rise in fuel prices over the past year.
02: Never good with names, Tiger often embarrasses himself when he mistakes the CEO of General Motors for the CEO of American Express during parties on Bill Gates’ private island in the South Pacific.
01: Tiger is wracked by feelings of guilt when he dons one of his signature red shirts – part of his $250,000,000 contract with Nike – for his favorite color is actually yellow, thus forcing him to live a lie.

WORDS THAT YOU LIKELY WOULD
NEVER SEE OR HEAR AGAIN WERE
SOME KIND OF SEA MONSTER TO
RISE UP FROM THE EAST RIVER
AND DEVOUR THE ENTIRE STAFF
OF THE NEW YORKER
06: Ineffable
05: Disputatious
04: Nonplussed
03: Eschew
02: Mien
01: Execrable

LESSER-KNOWN IRISH
FOLK SONGS
06: "A Stabbing on the Square"
05: "Ballad of the Lost Phone Number (Where, O Where, Are You Tonight, Hot Chick?)"
04: "Hold Down the Protestant (So I Can Beat Him)"
03: "How Did You Let The Potato Crop Die, You Dumb Son of a Bitch?"
02: "I Will Stab You in the Eye If You Touch My Wife Again, O'Malley"
01: "Don't Judge Me, Maggie. Don't Fucking Judge Me."

TOPICS ABOUT WHICH MY FATHER,
BOB, IS CONVINCED THAT I AM
WOEFULLY MISINFORMED
06: Politics
05: Vehicle maintenance
04: Home ownership
03: The weather
02: Financial planning
01: All that crap in the basement that I refuse to believe belongs to me, and thus will not clear out of there so he can sell the house and move to a patio home.

SIX FILMS THAT WOULD NOT HAVE
WORKED HAD MY FATHER, BOB, BEEN
ONE OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS
06: Citizen Kane: "A newspaper? Why the hell would I want to own a newspaper? This new outfit called International Business Machines looks like a much safer investment."
05: Star Wars: "Look, I don't care what the robot says about some damned princess. I gotta get back to the house because that bookshelf isn't going to build itself."
04: Hoosiers: "Fire the coach. Keep the coach. Do what you want. My gutters are still going to need cleaning either way."
03: The Godfather: "Let me ask you this: Is killing Luca Brasi going to get that porch furniture painted? No, I didn't think so."
02: Home Alone: "Now go back inside and get your brother. And tell him that he is going to regret the day he was born if I have to get out of this car and go get him myself."
01: The Towering Inferno: "Can you believe the idiot who did the wiring specs for this building? It was a fire waiting to happen. I had the contractor double the number of load centers and made him stick a bunch of branch circuits at the key junctions. And while I was at it, I had them triple the number of sprinkler heads. Yes sir, this tower is gonna be here for a good long time."