I Like You Too, Google Analytics, But Not *That* Much

I think I might need a few drinks before we get started.

The God Cookie

Walking along Wabash Avenue in Chicago this afternoon with my wife and new baby girl, I saw these in the window of a Mrs. Fields Cookies store:


I suppose there are people in the world who think it's a good idea to show up with a giant cookie during "painful moments," and that "quiet moments" are best interrupted by those bearing inspirational snacks.

Me? I'm sticking with Devil Dogs.

My Favorite Book in the Whole Wide World -- When I Was 12

In 1977, when I was 12 years old, a book was published that quite literally changed my life. I had always liked reading well enough, but I was at the stage in life where sports reigned supreme in my and other boys' lives. I became the kind of kid who would shovel the driveway in order to shoot baskets in the dead of winter. Reading was no longer a favored activity. But then The Book of Lists book found its way into my hands.


My mother and father recently visited and as is her habit, my mom brought along a few things from The Sullivan Archives -- also known as the garage -- that have long been forgotten. "Oh my gawd," I can hear her saying. "I'll bring this out to Joseph. He'll love it."

I loved it then and I love it now.

When I was 12, The Book of Lists read like Ripley's Believe It or Not and the Guinness Book of World Records rolled into one, but with a nice little addition: it had stuff about sex. A whole chapter about sex. Chapter 15, in fact. And it started off with a biggie: "6 Positions for Sexual Intercourse -- In Order of Preference" and only got better from there: "23 of the Busiest Lovers in History," "Sexual Curiosities About 9 Well-Known Women, "Three People Who Died During Sex." In the pre-Internet world of a pre-pubescent boy, this was heady stuff indeed.

Now, of course, The Book of Lists is a time capsule, a snapshot of beliefs and mores from 30 years ago. Richard Nixon was hated more than Idi Amin in 1972 and more than Adolph Hitler in 1973. The favorite hero of both boys and girls in 1976? O.J. Simpson. And there's a list called "10 Top American Arabs -- Or Didn't You Know?" I guess some things don't change all that much.

PS: Your reward for reading until the end: man on top, woman on top, side by side, "dog fashion" (hey, their words, not mine), sitting, and finally, standing.

Zippity Doo Dah: Adventures with the USPS

The wife and I are moving in about a week, and one of the tasks I've drawn is to change our address. Being a fairly busy person like you, I turn to the Interweb for help.

Do I need to say this? Bad idea.

I can't even begin to tell you how bad the user experience is on the USPS site. While some screen grabs might begin to help explain the inanity of the whole thing, I'll spare you those and simply say that you can't proceed until you select either a coupon to print out from one of their "business partners" and/or select a magazine to subscribe to. (Insert your own "Well, if only they offered Juggs" joke here.)

But here's the topper. Thinking I'll just go old school and walk over to the post office, I'm pretty sure *they* won't be able to tell me what my new zip code will be, so I figure I'll look it up before I go. And here's what I find when looking up my new zip:


Thankfully -- or should I say surprisingly -- "zip code" isn't a required field.

It Pays to Hire a Professional

Don't screw around, kids. Hire a member of the Associated Bodywork & Massage Professionals when it's time to, um, relax. You'll be glad you did.

Tetherball: Apparently, Sort of Dangerous

My son is at summer camp. His mom got a call earlier this week, which went something like this:

Camp nurse: "Hello, Mrs. Sullivan. Everything's OK, but there's been a little mishap, and your son might have broken his finger."

Mom: "Oh no. How did he do it?"

Camp nurse: "Playing tetherball."

So I did what any dad would do: I sent him a letter, hoping to cheer him up by informing him that I bought tickets for us to go see The National, I slipped $10 in the envelope, and I told him to work on a better story -- something along the lines of "Remember that dude in Florida who strangled a bobcat with his bare hands? Dude, I was eating Skittles, and a bear charged me, and I broke my finger giving him the Vulcan nerve pinch. That bear went down. Totally worth it."

The Fighting Magentas

I attended Fordham as an undergrad. The university's colors are maroon and white. But as we all know, identity changes over time. Designers would be in poor shape if this wasn't true.

Until 1875, Fordham's colors were magenta and white. Am I alone in thinking this is pretty cool?

Fordham's Web site tells the tale: in 1874, Fordham and Harvard ("Fordham's archrival." Hah! Tell that to my high school guidance counselor) played a series of baseball games to decide who would earn the right to wear magenta. Long story short: Fordham won, Harvard reneged, Fordham switched to maroon and white in 1875, only to be followed by Harvard changing to crimson that same year. Apparently, the "Battle of Aren't Maroon and Crimson Pretty Similar?" was not worth fighting.

I'm not exactly sure how or why I know this, but it's a fun little story and a bit puzzling too. Magenta? Really? So how delightful is it that Rebecca Bengal's entertaining article "Pink & Blue" in the current issue of Print (sorry, the story isn't online) informed me there wasn't anything strange with sports teams wearing what we've come to think of as feminine colors: "By the early 20th century, pink was considered a masculine color -- a light red -- and mothers were counseled to dress their daughters in demure Virgin Mary blue."

Fordham and Harvard aren't alone: pink and blue used to be the colors of Syracuse University, Penn State took the field in pink and black until 1890, and Vassar College waited until the 1970s to abandon pink (again, to maroon).

At least we can be happy that official colors aren't really that official. Sadly, though, this is only available in the women's cut: