The Amazing Markimus

I OWE, I OWE, TO DISNEYLAND WE GO!

2011-03-19T19:25:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-21T11:17:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-12-31T15:25:00.000-08:00

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

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I RESOLUTELY RESOLVE TO MAKE REALISTIC RESOLUTIONS

2009-12-31T06:34:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-12-28T14:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-27T16:26:00.000-08:00

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

Have a Holly, Molly Christmas

2008-12-21T07:46:00.000-08:00

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

A Christmas Carol

2008-12-08T18:55:00.000-08:00

Here's a column I wrote back in 2001. Parents, share it with your spoiled, ungrateful teenagers.

SHOPPING FOR A CHRISTMAS TREE WITH TEENS? YULE BE SORRY

So there I am, minding my own business, watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” when a faceless being in a dark cloak floats into the living room.

“Are you the Grim Reaper?” I ask nervously, wondering if my recent chest pains were more than just indigestion. “Nope,” he replies in a strange, otherworldly voice. “Grim’s taking a few days off, but he asked me to tell you to keep eating those triple cheeseburgers and pepperoni pizzas. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m here to show you this.”

Suddenly, the room fills with a vision of my excited, bright-eyed children, who can hardly wait to shop for our Christmas tree. “Can we please get our tree today, daddy?” they ask again and again. “Okay! We’ll get our stupid Christmas tree!” I reply, pretending to be annoyed by their pestering. (I’m actually just as excited as they are, but an effective father must occasionally exhibit a little holiday grouchiness, which is essential for raising respectful, well-behaved kids.)

We bundle up in our warmest coats and happily embark on our annual search for the perfect Christmas tree. On the road, the kids entertain themselves with loud off-key choruses of “Jingle Bells” and “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” At the tree lot, the real fun begins. Wired on complimentary hot chocolate and festive holiday cookies, the kids play a high-spirited game of hide-and-seek, accidentally knocking down a few trees in the process. I scold them, pretending to be angry at their rowdiness. Finally, after carefully examining every tree on the lot, we choose a beauty. Back at home, we merrily decorate our perfect tree while Bing, Perry, Nat and Andy serenade us with the world’s greatest Christmas songs.

The wonderful scene fades, and I’m now with the Ghost of Christmas Present, who shows me a troubling vision of an angry man (me) physically forcing his teenage children to go tree shopping. They’re obviously no longer interested in participating in an evening of family-oriented Christmas cheer. My daughter wants to stay home so she won’t miss her nightly phone call from her special friend, the one who has a voice lower than mine. My son, who’s developing his own low voice, wants to stay home so he can call his special friend, and ruin her father’s Christmas spirit. My sad wife looks at me and mumbles something about “the good old days.” I drive our pickup to the nearest tree lot, a dreary, undecorated, depressing place. There are no Christmas carolers. There’s no beautiful manger scene with live sheep. There’s no fake Santa Claus with miniature candy canes for the kids. And I’m almost certain that the burly, tattooed proprietor would attack me with his chain saw if I ask for complimentary hot chocolate and festive holiday cookies. After halfheartedly looking over the meager selection of trees, I grab one that is less ugly than the others.

“How about this one?” I ask, desperately hoping that somebody will reply, “No, dad! That’s a terrible tree! Let’s go somewhere else, somewhere with good trees.” But that didn’t happen.

“Yeah, that one’s fine,” says my uninterested daughter, who obviously wants to go home and talk with “Mr. Low Voice. “Can we go now?”

I glumly drag the tree to the cash register. Wham, bam, I pay the man. The entire tree-shopping experience takes less than five minutes.

As we drive home, I try to improve my mood by playing a CD of classic Christmas music. “Can’t we listen to the Dave Matthews Band instead?” asks the future Mrs. Low Voice. I lose control. “DON'T YOU KNOW THAT THE HERALD ANGELS ARE SINGING?! CAN’T YOU SPARE A FEW MINUTES TO ‘HARK?!’" The horrible vision is more than I can bear, and I begin to sob.

Suddenly, the Ghost of Christmas Future takes my hand and shows me a well-dressed sixty-something gentleman watching his two bright-eyed grandchildren play hide-and-seek in a cheerful, well-lit Christmas tree lot. He laughs heartily as they accidentally knock over a tree. He softly sings along as “White Christmas” plays over the loudspeakers. He sounds just like Bing Crosby. There’s something strangely familiar about this obviously intelligent, incredibly cool, unbelievably charming, remarkably fit grandfather who hasn't had a triple cheeseburger since Christmas of 2002. I realize that the man is me, and the grandchildren are mine.

I can hardly wait.

Mark Mayfield can also sing exactly like Perry Como.

Britney and Me

2008-12-05T18:19:00.000-08:00

I have a fantasy about me and Britney Spears, and it's not of the titillating variety. It goes something like this: Britney and I are alone in an elevator when I turn to her and excitedly exclaim, "Hey, I know who you are!"

Obviously annoyed, she rolls her eyes in a gesture that clearly means, "Of course you know who I am. Everybody knows who I am."

At that point I say, "You were on the last episode of Cops, right? You're the inbred hillbilly crackhead from the trailer park who peed on yourself after the sheriff handcuffed you and your cross-eyed cousin, who also happens to be your boyfriend."

Then the elevator door opens and I walk away singing a Christina Aguilera song.

That would be so sweeeeet.

Post-Thanksgiving Thoughts

2008-11-30T09:14:00.000-08:00

As the long Thanksgiving holiday comes to an end, I want to share a few of my observations from the last few days. (You may have a few of your own observations, but please don't share them with me.)

1. Stuffing is one of the tastiest foods in the history of food, and my stomach is apparently capable of holding about 17 pounds of it.

2. The PETA folks should take a chill pill and just try a little bite of turkey. I think they'd really like it! After all, if God doesn't want us to eat animals, why did He make turkeys with lots of juicy, delicious, nutritious white meat? And why did He make bacon-flavored pigs? Hmmm?

3. Caffeine is much cheaper than hiring a gardener. After consuming a pot of strong coffee and a 5-hour Energy Shot within a 2-hour period on Saturday, I eagerly raked every leaf on 2 1/4 acres. Then I pruned 36 trees and painted the house. (Okay, I was just kidding about painting the house.)

4. After consuming a pot of strong coffee and a 5-hour Energy Shot, a 50-year-old man is capable of sprinting 100 yards to the restroom in under 5.2 seconds.

5. This is actually more of a prediction than an observation, but I have a gut feeling that when the guys at Madera Waste Disposal pick up our trash on Wednesday, they're going to be pretty pissed about the 43 bags of leaves.

6. Getting motivated for the first workout after Thanksgiving was perhaps the most difficult task I've ever attempted--even harder than my 5.2-second sprint to the restroom.

Don't Thank "Da Pilgrimz" for Thanksgiving

2008-11-22T09:41:00.000-08:00

In honor of Thanksgiving, The Amazing Markimus proudly presents the following column, which was originally published in 2000.

Our nation will soon observe one of the most beloved, anticipated, important days of the year. But before our nation observes Super Bowl Sunday, it will observe another beloved, anticipated, important day of the year, a day that revolves around family, friendship and a deliciously moist dead bird. Despite the enormous popularity of this holiday, many Americans are shockingly ignorant about its origins. That’s because many Americans weren’t paying attention in class. Instead of listening to an interesting lesson about their brave forefathers, many Americans were shooting spitwads at a snotty little tattletale named Becky Lingenfelter, who was standing tragically close to meanest teacher in the world, an unforgiving woman who was still angry at many Americans for incorrectly naming Christopher Columbus’ three ships (the Nostril, the Pinky and the Pina Colada). While many Americans were in the principal’s office, trying to explain how the poorly aimed projectile ended up in the teacher’s right ear, and imagining the severe buttocks pain that would occur when their biological forefathers administer the dreaded Loving Hand of Discipline, the rest of the class was learning the following fascinating lesson about Thanksgiving:

Long ago, even before the invention of spit wads, a courageous group of people called the Pilgrims left their homeland because they were sick and tired of living in a place where everybody talked with a funny foreign accent. (These pilgrims shouldn’t be confused with “Da Pilgrimz,” a gangsta rap band that was deported from the Old World after the release of their controversial CD, “Take DAT, Mutha England!,” which included a violent, profanity-laced song entitled, “Musket Noyz From Da Pilgrim Boyz.”) The unhappy Pilgrims yearned for a land that was free of religious prosecution, a land where full-grown men didn’t wear silly white wigs during serious governmental proceedings, a land where delicious wild turkeys and mouth-watering boneless hams roamed the fruited plains, just waiting to be shot, cooked and devoured on Thanksgiving Day.

But life in the New World wasn’t easy for the Pilgrims. Their unexpected arrival alarmed many manly, muscular Native Americans, who were deeply offended by the male settlers’ feminine apparel. (Baggy pajama-like pants, lacy cuffs and frilly collars were a flagrant violation of the New World’s dress code.) This resentment turned into armed conflict after one Native American overheard one of the “sissy Pilgrims” say, “Hey, guys! Wouldn’t this unspoiled meadow be a perfect spot for a strip mall?!” The ensuing battles raged until a greedy slot machine salesman, who hoped that an end to the fighting would eventually lead to the construction of several lucrative Indian gaming casinos, arranged a high-level peace summit. Here is the actual transcript from that historic event:

Pilgrim: Stop shooting us with those sharp arrows!

Native American: Stop shooting us with those primitive firearms! And start wearing some masculine clothes!

Pilgrim: Here are some worthless trinkets and a snack bag of peanuts from our flight on the Concorde. Can we let bygones be bygones?

Native American: Forget the stupid trinkets, girly-man. How about a few shares of Microsoft? And what the heck are bygones?

Greedy Slot Machine Salesman: Hey, you guys are getting along like old friends! Can we start building some casinos?

To commemorate their peace agreement, the former enemies planned an extravagant feast called Thanksgiving. (“Thanksgiving” was a new word coined by abbreviating the phrase “Thanks for giving us those shares of Microsoft.”) Everybody worked together to make this new holiday a tremendous success. The women were in charge of slaughtering, disemboweling, cleaning, stuffing and cooking the various meat-bearing creatures. They were also in charge of setting the table, warming the brown ‘n’ serve dinner rolls, and baking the pies. Oh, yeah, and they were also in charge of washing the dishes. The men were in charge of watching football games. The first Thanksgiving was so enjoyable that the new neighbors decided to make it an annual event.

So, my fellow thankful Americans, as we prepare to celebrate this uniquely American holiday, let us remember the prophetic words of one happy Pilgrim, who said, “I’ll bet this turkey day thing is gonna be really big!” to which the greedy slot machine salesman replied, “Did somebody say ‘bet’?”

Mark Mayfield has a feeling that he’ll have to wash his own dishes after Thanksgiving dinner.

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

And The Winner Is . . .

2008-11-18T16:45:00.001-08:00

Today I have the honor of being the very first "guest blogger" on my daughter's incredibly popular website. (Okay maybe "incredibly popular" is a slight exaggeration, but I'm pretty sure that her blog has more readers than mine, which has an average daily audience of 2, not counting myself.) Check out Dominique's blog right here: http://www.dominiquerose.blogspot.com/

Twittering My Life Away

2008-11-15T11:15:00.000-08:00

In my ongoing quest to stay on top of the latest societal trends and cutting-edge technology, I recently began to get my Twitter on. No, Twitter is NOT an anatomical term, although it certainly sounds like one. ("Every time I cough, I get a sharp pain right below my Twitter.")

Actually, Twitter is a "social networking and micro-blogging service" that allows users to track the daily activities and whereabouts of their "friends." In the language of Twitter, "friends" can include complete strangers who have a creepy interest in knowing what you're doing and where you're doing it.

In the shell of a nut, here's how Twitter works: After signing up for a free account, you can begin to follow posted updates--called "Tweets"--from other Twitter users. You can also begin to post your own Tweets, which are very short (140 characters or less) and usually pretty mundane. For example, a typical Tweet could be something like this: "I'm picking my nose with one hand and stirring the spaghetti sauce with the other." Or this: "I just passed gas and blamed it on the dog." Or this: "I just saw my son's baseball coach in a bar dressed up like a woman."

If you think Twitter sounds a lot like stalking, you're right--except for one important difference: Stalkers don't usually have permission to follow you. However, when you sign up for Twitter, you're basically saying, "Hey, all you creepy people out there in Creepville! I hereby give you permission to creepily track my daily activities for whatever creepy reason you creeps may have."

I suspect that it's only a matter of time before an accused stalker tries to clear his name in court by utilizing the "Twitter Defense." (When this actually happens, remember that you first heard this prediction right here.) The defendant's plea might sound something like this: "Your honor, I was not stalking the plaintiff. My computer was broken, so when I peeked into her bedroom window at midnight, I was simply attempting to obtain a visual "tweet."

But if I may be serious for a moment, I just want to remind my fellow Twitterers to be very careful about the information you include in your Tweets. For obvious reasons, the following Tweet would not be a good idea: "I'll be out of town this weekend, and since my home alarm is still broken, I hid all my valuables under the bed in my spare bedroom."

That's all for now. Happy Twittering!

Veterans Day 2008

2008-11-11T14:44:00.000-08:00

Regardless of our political differences, most Americans can agree on this: Our country owes a debt of gratitude to the men and women who bravely fought and died to preserve the freedom we now enjoy.

Repeat after me: Buy socks at Costco. . .Buy socks at Costco. . .Buy socks at Costco. . .

2008-06-29T14:54:00.000-07:00

Here's a rare picture of Vicky under the influence of the mysterious "Costco Trance." Does she really need three dozen pairs of socks? Probably not, but she has no control over her actions. Notice the blur of her fast-moving feet as she frantically moves to grab more socks to cram in her shopping basket. I'll fully examine this bizarre phenomena in a later post, but right now I must get my wife out of here before she starts grabbing lawn mowers, inflatable boats, and patio heaters. This could get ugly.

Congratulations, Bulldogs!

2008-06-25T21:26:00.000-07:00

Let's get one thing straight: I am NOT a Rah-Rah, Red Wave kind of guy. In fact, I have little in common with those wine-sipping, red sweater-wearing "fans," many of whom know nothing about the sport they're watching. For them, attending FSU sporting events is more about socializing than watching the game.

Having said that, I must admit that I, along with thousands (maybe millions) of others, got caught up in Fresno State's improbable success at the College World Series in Omaha. Yep, I watched every televised game, and loudly, proudly rooted for the boys from Fresno. In fact, I'm pretty sure that my loud, proud rooting was the reason they played so well, Several times I yelled loud enough for them to hear me all the way from Madera to Omaha.

But seriously, what an amazing ending to an incredible season. Congratulations to the College World Series Champs--The Fresno State Baseball Bulldogs. Well done, guys.

Big Brown Goes Down

2008-06-08T10:30:00.000-07:00

If you paid any attention to the hoopla leading up to yesterday's Belmont Stakes, you know that a horse named Big Brown was supposed to win. In fact, the horse's trainer, Rick Dutrow Jr., guaranteed that Big Brown would be horse racing's first Triple Crown winner in 30 years. He said it was a "foregone conclusion."

Well, guess what. Big Brown did NOT win. In fact, he finished in 9th place. Now I'm not an expert on horse racing, but I'm pretty sure that ninth place isn't quite as good as first place. The winning horse, Da' Tara, was a 38-1 long shot. I think there are two morals to this story: (1.) It's okay to be quietly confident, but bragging about winning a race that hasn't even happened is pretty stupid. (2.) Although the odds may be against you, try anyway. You might just surprise everybody. Just ask Da' Tara.

For more of my thoughts about horses, read "Who Needs Horses Anyway?"

HATARI!

2008-06-07T19:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, here's a real random post. ("Random" is one of my daughter's favorite words, and if you've ever seen her blog, you already know that "random" perfectly describes her writing style and her choice of topics. If you've never visited her blog, go ahead and check it out, but before you do, let me issue this disclaimer right now: Dominique had a normal childhood. Her mother and I were very good parents. We never beat her with rusty chains. We never abandoned her in the middle of a dark, cold forest. We never locked her in a basement with rabid rodents. And we never allowed her to watch MTV. In other words, we do not know why she developed such a bizarre, twisted, "random" outlook on life. Okay, now you can check out her blog. WAIT! Before, you check out HER blog, you should read the rest of MY post because it's really, really random.)

Hatari!, a 1962 movie with John Wayne, Hardy Kruger, Elsa Martinelli, Red Buttons and Gerard Blain, is LONG. I watched bits and pieces of it today on AMC, and I could swear that it started around 9 a.m. and finally ended about 4 p.m. Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it seemed to go on forever. That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the parts I watched. I actually did. The movie, which was filmed in Arusha National Park, Tanzania, is about a group of men who capture wild animals in Africa and sell them to zoos. Parts of the movie are corny and unbelievable, but that's why I enjoyed it. I like corny old movies, and I truly believe that today's so-called movie stars can't hold a candle to guys like John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Robert Mitchum, etc.

So that concludes my random post for today. Until next time, Hatari!

Read one of Mark's all-time favorite movie reviews:
If You Like Naked Space Aliens, You'll Love "Signs"

Be Sugar-Free Like Me

2008-05-28T18:18:00.000-07:00

About six months ago, I stopped eating sugar. That's right, I completely ended my lifelong relationship with one of my favorite substances. Kicking the sugar habit was one of my New Year's resolutions for 2008, and I'm proud to say that I've survived six long months (and I mean LOOOOOOONG months) without one taste of chocolate-chip cookie dough or a single square of a Lindt dark chocolate bar, or a solitary crumb from a Costco maple-nut muffin, or even a tiny sip of a Starbucks Mocha Chip Frappuccino .

Has it been hard? Heck yes, it's been hard! And if I weren't the Amazing Markimus, I'm not sure I could have endured the constant temptation from evil sugar pushers who were determined to see me fail. ("Come on, Mark, one little taste of this coconut cream pie won't hurt you. Go ahead. I won't tell anybody.")

Giving up sugar was a risky move on my part because I usually avoid difficult New Year's resolutions. Most of my previous resolutions were easily achievable--and with good reason. You see, when people make resolutions that are too difficult, they usually fail, and failure causes disappointment and depression. And everybody knows that disappointment and depression are disappointing and depressing.

Let's say, for example, that you're a morbidly obese 68-year-old man who makes a New Year's resolution to become the highest paid female supermodel in history. Well, my friend, I hate to tell you this, but chances are that your resolution will fail miserably, and you'll feel very disappointed and depressed. But if that same morbidly obese 68-year-old man makes and an easier resolution to smoke more cigarettes, avoid exercise, eat more saturated fat, increase his blood pressure, and possibly die of a massive heart attack, chances are quite good that he'll succeed. (Of course, since he'll be dead, he won't be able to enjoy the satisfaction of his achievement.)

Okay, so maybe those examples are a little lame, but that really doesn't matter. What DOES matter is that I've managed to live without sugar for SIX months, and I truly believe that you can do the same thing.

"But, Mark, what are the benefits of giving up sugar?" you ask. That's a great question, and I will answer it by listing a few of the remarkable benefits I've experienced since becoming The Amazing Sugarless Markimus:

I haven't been sick in six months. No kidding. Not even a cold.
I've been sleeping much better.
My short-term memory has improved.
I have more energy.
My concentration has improved.
I can run a mile in less than 30 seconds.
My short term memory has improved.
I can lift a school bus over my head.
I became President of the United States.
I discovered life on Mars.
I brought peace to the Middle East
And last, but not least, my short-term memory has improved.

Yesterday, my daughter told me that she is going to follow my example and attempt to give up sugar. Please feel free to visit her blog and offer words of support and encouragement. She'll need them.

For more information on the harmful effects of sugar, read my review of Sugar Blues by William Dufty: "Mark's Book Club says, 'Drop That Donut'"

Good Golly, Miss Molly

2008-05-24T20:29:00.000-07:00

Because of circumstances beyond my control, I'm unable to write a witty, entertaining, award-winning post for today. Instead, I present the following excerpt from one of my incredibly hilarious, previously published columns. To read the entire column, just click the link at the end of the post. Have a great Memorial Day weekend!

As a struggling freelance writer, I'm always looking for ways to turn everyday experiences into amusing “slice-of-life” columns, and lately, a large slice of my life--in fact, the whole darn pie of my life--has been consumed by a puppy named Molly.

Molly is a miniature dachshund, the second such dog my family has endured. Our first one, Odie (1981-1995), was the world’s fattest barking mammal. In fact, during his long, successful tenure as our top dog, Odie became so large that we removed the word “miniature” from his job description and replaced it with “disgustingly obese.”

Through the first three weeks of my relationship with Molly, I recorded several thoughts, feelings, and observations in my journal. I hope these will serve as a warning to anybody who’s about to fall prey to a miniature dachshund puppy.

To read the rest of this column ("Good Golly, Miss Molly"), click here: http://markmayfield.homestead.com/files/ZTBR.htm

That's Why They Call Me "Amazing"

2008-05-22T17:00:00.000-07:00

If you read yesterday's post, you know that I made several predictions about last night's American Idol finale. Well, folks, I don't like to brag, but every single prediction was right on target.

I'm sure that some angry readers are now saying, "Hey, wait just a minute, pal! You predicted that David Archuleta would win last night, and he didn't win, so what's up with that, Mister Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire?!"

I can certainly understand such reactions, but I have a good excuse . . .um . . . uh . . . I mean I have a reasonable explanation. Yesterday, when I was writing my post, I was extremely tired and worn out from a stressful day of being the Amazing Markimus. It's not easy being me, and sometimes the job takes its toll. Anyway, in my weary state, I apparently got my days confused. Everybody does it once in awhile. You just momentarily forget which day it is. Perhaps you think it's Monday when it's actually Tuesday. Or you think it's Friday when it's actually Thursday. Or you think it's Wednesday when it's actually October. Whatever the case, it happens to all of us. And that's exactly what happened to me yesterday. When I predicted that Archuleta would win American Idol, I thought it was Opposite Day.

I hope that clears up your confusion.

If you'd like to learn more about my amazing mental powers, read this published column from my archives: http://markmayfield.homestead.com/files/RZQL.htm

I Think David's Goose Is COOKed

2008-05-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

A few predictions about tonight's American Idol finale:

Randy Jackson will tell one of the finalists that he "could sing the phone book and make it sound good."
Paula Abdul will stand up and dance.
Randy Jackson will use the term, "MAD, HOT VOCALS, BABY!"
Paula Abdul will stand up and dance.
Simon Cowell will be smug.
Paula Abdul will stand up and dance.
Simon Cowell will wink at somebody.
Randy Jackson will call somebody a "dawg."
Ryan Seacrest will annoy me.
David Archuleta will win the title (although David Cook is clearly the more talented contestant).
David Archuleta will looked shocked and surprised when Ryan Seacrest announces the results of the voting.
Did I mention that Ryan Seacrest will annoy me?
Paula Abdul will stand up and dance.

Let's see how many I get right.

And speaking of American Idol . . . http://markmayfield.homestead.com/files/SIVT.htm

Don't forget to check out these wonderful websites: http://www.markscolumns.com/ and http://www.centralvalleyfitness.com/

Thanks For The Comments

2008-05-20T15:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I vowed not to post another entry until my first entry has at least 100,000 comments. Well, I'm very proud to report that when I woke up this morning, my first entry had exactly 100,000 comments. Unfortunately, I had to delete 99,998 of those comments because they contained objectionable language, including terms such as "booger-brain" and "butt-face." The Amazing Markimus believes that anybody who uses that kind of language is a real poo-poo head.

One of the nicest comments is from Dominique James. "It's music to my eyes," she wrote after viewing my blogspot for the first time. Thank you very much, Dominique. That's a very sweet, creative comment. And now here's a sweet, creative comment from me to you: Your blog is a "sight for sore ears."

Another kind comment came from Dominique's husband, Chance James, owner of Chance James Photography in Fresno. "The world is a better place," said Mr. James after reading my historic first blog entry. Your words are so true, Chance. So very true.

I just hope that Mr. James and his lovely wife, Dominique, (who just happens to be my daughter) aren't leaving nice comments just because they want me to promote Chance James Photography on my Blogspot or repeatedly mention Chance James Photography in my blog entries. I will NEVER promote Chance James Photography on my Blogspot just because the owner of Chance James Photography leaves nice comments about my entries. Nor will I repeatedly mention Chance James Photography in my entries just because the owner of Chance James Photography happens to be married to my daughter. So if anybody from Chance James Photography is reading this entry, please understand that Chance James Photography won't receive extra mentions on this blog just because the owner of Chance James Photography leaves a nice comment about my blog entries. Do you hear me, Chance James Photography?

By the way, if you're looking for a great photographer, please consider Chance James of Chance James Photography.

Mark's First Blog

2008-05-19T14:39:00.001-07:00

Okay, I realize that "Mark's First Blog" is a stupid title for something as historic as my long-awaited entry into the Blogosphere, but all of the good titles were already taken. I wanted an impressive, majestic, memorable title, one that would convey the earth-shaking significance of this amazing moment in Internet history. Unfortunately, the only titles I could think of were already being used. I thought that "The Bible" would be a great title for my first blog, but a friend of mine told me there's already a really old book with that name. Then I came up with "American Idol," but apparently some TV show is already using that one. And when I found out that somebody had already used "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," I just gave up, and decided on "Mark's First Blog."

Anyway, I have big plans for this blog. BIG plans. I'm talkin' BIG, BIG plans. I'd like to share those big plans with you, but, unfortunately, I have no idea what those big plans actually are. You'll just have to stay tuned to find out. Oh, and by the way, I've decided that I will not post a new entry until I have a certain number of comments about my current entry. After all, why should I waste my time composing new entries if nobody is reading them? That would be really stupid, almost as stupid as the title of my first blog entry.

Many concerned readers are now asking, "Gee, Mark, how many comments will you need before posting a new entry?" Well, I'm thinking about 100,000, so get busy! Of course, comments from family members don't count.

And speaking of family members, I want to thank my wonderful daughter, Dominique, (http://www.dominiquerose.blogspot.com/) for convincing me that blogging would be a great way to showcase my wit, wisdom and incomparable talents. Thanks, sweetie! I'm sure you're already regretting your suggestion.

Well, that wraps up my first official blog entry. Pretty exciting, eh? Remember, if you want more blog entries from the Amazing Markimus, start commenting! Meanwhile, check out these fantastic sites:

www.MarksColumns.com and www.CentralValleyFitness.com