A man has something a woman doesn’t have. Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s not what you think it is.

A man has a space – a space in his brain that’s completely unoccupied, devoid of any synapses or other links to thought. In this cranial space he doesn’t think. He does nothing – absolutely nothing – and for long periods of time.

This space, that only a man has, is called his “Nothing Room.”

A woman’s brain is totally different. A woman’s brain is jammed with designated thought areas. A woman has a spot to store every thought she’s ever had and will have until her last breath.

And her last thought will probably be something like this, “I wonder why today was my day? Can we talk about this?”

Ergo, women are very jealous of a man’s nothing space.

A woman can tell when a guy is in that space because she’s been trained by masters. She recognizes his blank vacant stares … that bit of drool … monosyllabic responses to complex questions.

A man goes to his Nothing Room frequently because he’s learned it’s the only space he has that is truly his. As the owner of a Nothing Room, a man must be ever vigilant that a woman doesn’t gain entry to his nothing space.

Attempts to occupy a man’s Nothing Room may go something like this:

Partner: “Hi hon, what ya thinkin’ about?”

Man: “Oh, nothing.”

Partner: “You gotta be thinkin’ about something. You can’t be thinking about ‘nothing.’ What’s going on in there?” (This is a thinly veiled attempt to gain illegal entry.)

Man: “Really – nothing. I’m not thinking about anything.”

At this point a smart woman shrugs and walks away, leaves the man to his thoughts about nothing and allows him to continue to hang out in his cranial vacuum.

Researchers have been unable to locate or verify the man’s Nothing Room. This shouldn’t be a surprise since there’s nothing to find in the Nothing Room. Nothing is visible, nothing is scope-able.

And be forewarned. A man’s Nothing Room has absolutely nothing in it because he wants it that way. Nothing to dust. No decorator colors, no dried or silk flowers, no Martha Stewart towels, no nothing!

Every man knows that a decorated room instantly becomes a “Something Room.” It would have to be cleaned, maintained, rearranged and taken care of. The man would feel responsible for it. It would become just another designated thought space in his already cluttered mind … Lunch, football and sex
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Remember, there’s a reason men call it their “Nothing Room.” We’re just sorry women don’t have Nothing Rooms of their own.

In case you weren’t aware of it, this Thursday, March 26th is National Spinach Day, the day reserved for celebrating all forms of spinach.

I love holidays – all holidays. Holidays are days worthy of celebration.

If it weren’t for holidays, I’d have no reason to get out of bed. Holidays give me a reason to make it through another day. Celebratory behavior is my built-in excuse to find something to drink and someone to drink with.

So spinach, I salute you. Here’s to spinach!

To help me focus, I need a holiday icon. Christmas – Santa. Easter – Bunny. Thanksgiving – Pilgrim or Turkey. Get it?

And for NSD (National Spinach Day) I have that rough and tumble tattooed waterfront tough guy, Popeye the Sailor Man.

“I’m strong to the finish, ’cause I eats me Spinach, I’m Popeye the sailor man, toot, toot!”

Sure, Popeye’s spinach was canned; but it was “fresh from the can.” He didn’t bother cooking it. In a last ditch Herculean moment, Popeye would squeeze the can, his spinach popped up through the lid and he downed it in one gulp.

Just like a real man!

For Popeye, spinach existed only as an emergency ration to help him out of scrapes with Bluto, or to save his beautiful Olive Oyl, or beat back nefarious enemies and denizens of land and sea.

Once he ingested his spinach, Popeye became the earliest Transformer, morphing from a weakling into a muscle bulging dervish of strength and speed.

No one could stop Popeye and only the foolhardy tried.

Long before the first popular nutritionist tried to tell us what to eat and not to eat, Popeye exemplified the virtues of eating spinach. And who knew that spinach actually contains steroids which accelerate muscle development.

So there you are athletes of the world. Want steroids? Eat you fricking spinach and then challenge anyone and everyone to a urine test!

The fact that you would have to eat about 2.2 pounds of spinach daily might be a deterrent, but you’ll still pass those tests. And, think of the money you’ll save!

So get in the spirit of this noble holiday, and let’s all build a bit of muscle.

I’m celebrating National Spinach Day with some spinach dishes, maybe even a dessert.

Hey, spinach sorbet can’t be all bad.

And I’m definitely indulging in my National Spinach Day holiday libation – mulled fresh spinach with a squeeze of lemon in my vodka rocks.

“I Yam what I Yam … Toot, toot!”

Rock on, you crazy sailor!

We’re clearly in a time when publicly sharing our personal lives is the norm.

Still I think it’s kind of weird when people I’ve never met reveal their private thoughts, political positions, family deaths and religious beliefs on the back of a car.

But I have to admit I’m hooked.  It’s  always “pedal to the metal” to catch-up with a car that’s plastered with enough window decals and bumper stickers to create a soap opera on wheels.  It’s like I’ve  found a really good book and can’t put it down.

I have to confess that of all the bumper stickers out there, the ones that mystify me most are the ones that read something like this:  “Proud Parent of …”

The other day I got close enough to the car in front of me to cause my wife to press her imaginary passenger-side brake before I read:  “Proud Parent of a Kiwanis Terrific Kid.”

That one threw me.

We’ve all seen “Student of the Month” bumper stickers.  But I hadn’t seen a bumper sticker this generic, this amorphous.  I immediately wondered, “What the hell is a Kiwanis Terrific Kid?”

All manner of possibilities crossed my mind.

At least with “Student of the Month,” one presumes there is some sort of grading system involved.  But what specifically constitutes a “Kiwanis Terrific Kid?”  Grades?  Helping little old ladies (and men) cross the street?  Walking dogs?

I don’t want to be the one throwing the wet blanket on Kiwanians or terrific kids, but it seems that we’ve lost all sense of what it takes to earn recognition.  Maybe they should’ve placed an asterisk on the bumper sticker with a website address so we could determine just why this kid is terrific.

Taking this a step further, which I always like to do, I decided that if a Kiwanis Kid could be labeled as terrific and a parent could therefore feel proud, I could create bumper stickers for parents of other “lesser terrific” kids but who’s parents still felt proud.

Maybe we could have a “Proud Parents of Tanya Harding,” or Proud Parents of Charles Manson, or even Proud Parent of Cheezwhiz (aren’t our inventions, even those leaving oil slicks, our children?).  Or maybe I’m just pissed that we didn’t have bumper stickers when I was a kid so my parents could celebrate being proud of me.

Hmm … As I think about it, it might have been a bit humiliating to read my parent’s view of me on the rear bumper of their car, “Proud Parents of a Recalcitrant, Oppositional Brat Who Never got Past the Terrible Twos.”

Just sayin’.

I don’t get this idea of a Bucket List.  It misses the point of life which is best described as “living.”

I don’t want to spend my limited time in the here-and-now seeking physical thrills or trying to outdo other humans in a never ending quest for the top thrill of my life.

I’m very comfortable dodging the vicissitudes and participating in the thrills of everyday life.  For instance:

Driving on 4-6 lane roads without getting sideswiped or run off the road by drivers who do not want to go where you’re going but still want to beat you there.

Matching wits with service people whose sole (maybe soul?) purpose is to provide no service for maximum fees.

Keeping the medical establishment’s killing-me-softly-and-slowly machine away from my cave door.

Trying to figure out what the hell my various insurance policies actually insure other than ensuring an income stream for insurance companies.

Wondering about daily reports of extreme weather events & how many million people they may effect.

And, this does not even scratch the surface of our latest “public sport”: shoot the cop, the citizen, the kids, wives, girlfriends, partners or random passersby.

Nor does it cover the possibility of being beheaded, kidnapped for ransom, or run off the road because you have somehow insulted the basic human integrity of the person who happened to be driving next to you on that given day when you passed, honked your horn, or got too close in order to read the 35 bumper stickers on his car declaring who and what he is for, or who and what he is against.

I have concluded, therefore, a Bucket List is the creation of those folks who cannot see the thrills that come with day-to-day living.

So, you may ask yourself, “What does Huss have if he doesn’t have a Bucket List?”

And the answer is … I have created my very own “F%&k-It-List.”

This is serious business.  My F-I-L is used whenever I get the feeling that my life is not exciting … enough.

It’s really simple.  Each time I have an urge to do something that represents a challenge to my dwindled testosterone, I write it on a piece of paper and throw it into my personal F%&k-It-List.

I also measure my successes in life in tangible ways.

With every piece of paper I throw into my F-I-L, I calculate the money I have not spent, estimate the time I have not wasted, and thank the “List Gods” for the death wishes I have not fulfilled.

As a result, I enjoy huge amounts of success.

I encourage all of you to seriously and vigorously pursue your own F%&k-It-List.

Think of the money, time, and angst you’ll save.

Think of how much happier you might be.

Just sayin’.