Being a fumbling, socially awkward doofus isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sure, I make it seem effortless -- even glamorous at times. But there are certain social pitfalls that are difficult for me and my fellow floundering fools to avoid. Chief among these is the issue of 'appropriate bodily contact'.


Nothing strikes fear in the heart of an intrepid introvert trying to play nice with others more than the question of how little -- or how much -- touching is called for in a given situation. No other means of interpersonal interaction keeps us lying awake, fretting and sweating, like the anxiety we harbor over appropriate bodily contact.


(Unless maybe it's anxiety over inappropriate bodily contact. Or usually, the lack thereof.


But that's a different post altogether. One pitfall at a time.)


I've personally had my share of sleepless nights, stressing over the finer points of social protocol. I've stumbled through nightmare scenarios involving 'The Goodbye Hug', 'The Job Interview Handshake', and that dastardliest doozy of them all, 'Greeting the Father-In-Law'.


(Do you shake the man's hand? Hug him tightly? Loosely? Pat him on the ass and tell him, 'Good job?'


I've never entirely figured that one out, which may have strained the relationship with my own father-in-law a bit. Mostly because I try something different every time.


Last time I saw him, I punched him in the arm and made raspberry kisses on his tummy. Man, was that an awkward Thanksgiving dinner.)


Who knows how we gawky and graceless geeks got this way? Maybe our parents never hugged us. Or hugged us too much, or too hard, or too soon after a large starchy meal. Maybe we were shunned by the other kids during our formative years, or stuffed in one too many lockers, or dropped on the 'interpersonal skill' bits of our brains while our skulls were still soft.


Whatever the reasons, we're left to play the hands we've been dealt. And sometimes, that involves touching people. And I don't mean people with whom we're rooming, are married to, or have just paid fifty bucks to behind the dumpster at Denny's. People in those categories, we know how to touch. Namely, 'gently', 'never', and 'for only the next twenty minutes'. Not necessarily in that order.


But what to do with the rest of the population? How to navigate the perilous straits of daily interaction with friends, family, coworkers, teammates, teachers, clients, and overzealous Starbucks baristas? If you touch too little, you'll be seen as cold and aloof. Touch too much, and you'll be 'clingy' and 'suffocating'. Or tossed out of the coffee shop, before your grande mocha is ready. What's a bewildered budding extrovert to do?


That's where I come in.


I've performed extensive research in many areas of interpersonal interaction. I've observed hundreds of 'normals' in the wild, and taken copious notes on their methods of greeting, grasping, and grooming each other. Based on the data I've collected, I can now offer solid instruction to the shy and awkward souls of the world about what to do -- and what not to do -- in just about any social setting. For instance:


Visiting Grandma


You haven't seen your 'Nana' or 'Grams' or 'G-Mo Dawg' for a while. Maybe it's been months, or even longer? What's the right way to show your special matriarch you love her, without rubbing off too much of that 'old person' smell?


Do: Give gummy old granny a hug, and a hello kiss. Whether that kiss comes on the lips, forehead or cheek depends on several factors -- the quality of your relationship, the current bushiness of her 'grannystache', and whether or not the old bird's already been hitting the sauce today.


Don't: Squeeze too hard, lift her off the ground, or apply a 'welcome noogie'. We know you love your granny, but she's a little fragile these days. Handle with care.


Also, no matter where you move in for that kiss, remember, under no circumstances -- no tongue. If anyone's going to be licking grandma's dentures, it's grandma. Or possibly grandpa, but it's best not think about that. Ever.


The Hearty Handshake


Regular, everyday handshakes are one thing. But how should you react when some overeager wristwaggler comes at you with one hand aimed at your palm, and the other ready to grab your wrist, elbow, or shoulder for good measure?


Do: Shake hands as you normally would, Ignore your assailant's second hand, and hope the exchange ends quickly, without undue molestation.


Don't: Slap at or brush away that second hand. For one thing, it's unfriendly. For another, you might end up accidentally interlocking fingers, and suddenly you're not shaking hands any more. You're waltzing, or playing a game of Mercy. Leave the pattycakes to the toddlers, and take your handshake like a man.


Also? No tongue. It's kind of a universal rule, really. I can't stress this enough.


Celebrating the Home Team's Touchdown


This one is particularly important, with the Super Bowl looming. If you're watching the big game and your squad punches it into the end zone, where should your celebratory machinations draw the line in terms of maintaining appropriate personal space?


Do: High-five. Chest-bump. Shake hands, touch fists, and clap your chums on the shoulder. Your team's goin' to Disneyland!


Don't: Embrace. Do 'the bump'. Slap ass, jump on someone's back, or lock arms to form a Rockettes-style kick line. Leave that nonsense for the overpaid jackholes who just scored six. If they go too far, it costs them fifteen yards; if you do, it'll cost you your dignity. And maybe your ride home.


And remember, above all else, under no circumstances -- no tongue.

I hope these words of advice will help you to avoid the social pitfalls -- and possible restraining orders -- of 'appropriate bodily contact'. If only someone had told me about these things, I would've avoided an awful lot of trouble and embarrassment.


Also, I might still be allowed in Grandma's house. That poor, traumatized wet-cheeked old woman.

(Originally appearing in the May '06 copy of Issues Magazine online. -- Ed.)


As summertime approaches, many of our best and brightest are preparing to jump one of life's major hurdles -- graduating from high school. It's right up there with 'earning a learner's permit', 'sneaking into a kegger', and 'getting to second base' on any red-blooded teenager's list of things to accomplish.


For most kids, the graduational festivities include some sort of keynote speaker, usually an educator or community leader or some other important-looking stuffed suit. The speaker is there to look solemn and dour and to impress upon the graduates the magnitude of the cross roads at which they stand. One accomplishment behind them, and a taste of college life ahead. That, the speaker will stress, is the first important step towards the goal -- a life of cautious choices, fiscal responsibility, and conservative attire.


Yawn. Those people probably drive the speed limit and pay their taxes on time, too. Poindexters.


'College life' isn't about 'learning responsibility' or 'finding a path'; it's a last chance to get crazy and act like a kid again. Soon enough, your path will find you, and you'll manage to be responsible enough to scrape enough cash together for rent, beer, and mac 'n' cheese. Trust me, you'll find a way. It may involve stripping on weekends or donating blood -- lots and lots of blood, preferably your own -- but you'll make it work. Have faith.


Meanwhile, listen up kids. Forget those stuffed-shirt chumleys looking down on your mortarboards and preaching about math moderation, mutual funds, and majoring in math. There'll be plenty of time for pocket protectors and responsible investing when you're dead! Here’s the graduation speech you ought to be hearing:


"Ladies and gentlemen. Graduating seniors. Parents. Families. Teachers. Miscellaneous hangers-on.


Many of these young men and women are about to take their first tentative, halting steps into the world of college life. They'll flee the nest in their hand-me-down cars, toting milk crate 'furniture' and raging hormones to a campus far, far away. Before they go, I'd like to offer a few words of advice, based on my own collegiate experience.


First, many of you likely have grand plans for your futures. You've picked out a major, decided where you'll start your career, maybe even imagined what your house or spouse or kids will look like.


Well, forget it.


College has a way of scrambling your plans like margaritas in a blender. Today, you think you'll be a history major. Two weeks into your freshman year, you'll meet some hot guy or chick who's an artiste, and next thing you know, you're ass-deep in watercolors and pottery clay. When you eventually break up -- and you will; relationships with artistes never work out -- you'll fall into economics, or chemistry, or something. Maybe even history again; who knows? The point is -- ride the wave. Majors are for college seniors. Old, jaded, art-hating college seniors. Give it time.


The same goes for Greek life. Maybe you've already got strong feelings about joining a fraternity or sorority. You think those folks are cool, or jokes, trendsetters, or stuck-up rich kids. Fine.


Just be prepared to forget everything you think you think about them, when your freshman roomie joins one. Or doesn't. Or *gasp* joins the wrong one. That'll shake you up a bit. It's then, and only then, that these words will make sense to you:


'Campus Greek life provides access to three things -- booze, sex, and monthly dues. If you can score the first two on your own, then you probably don't need to hassle with the third. If not, it might be worth the cash. You won't know for sure until you're sitting in your dorm room in the fall, horny, sober, and alone, with Pledge Week just around the corner. It's a delicate choice. Don't make it now.'


There's more you should know, certainly. Never schedule a class before nine in the morning, for instance. If you're drinking anything made in a bathtub or garbage can, make sure home is within crawling distance. Yes, you can survive on pizza and Old Milwaukee for a whole semester. No, wine from a box is not worth the raging hangover the next morning.


And if everyone tells you the guy is an ass or the girl is a psycho bitch -- believe it. You can't change the nutcase. Don't even try. They're probably an artiste, anyway.


Mostly, though, don't be afraid to go learn your own lessons. Skip a few classes. Do a few keg stands, streak across a few quads, and road trip to Canada for the weekend on a Friday night whim? Because in four years -- or in my case, nine -- it'll all be over. They'll stick you behind a desk or a fry cooker or in a cubicle somewhere, and the party's over. It's a lot tougher to 'dabble' out there in the real world, and skipping work will get you worse than taken off the Dean's List. And if you think your union dues will pay for booze and sex...well, maybe you're right, if you happen to become a Teamster.


But that's a speech for another day. Now get your barely-legal asses out there and make me proud. Class dismissed!"

I think I've had just about enough.


Everywhere I go, and from just about everyone I talk to, I hear about what 'they' say. 'They' say you should do this, and 'they' say you can't do that, and 'they' don't want you sticking your tongue in that thing any more.


Well, I've had it. Who do these 'they' people think 'they' are, anyway?


Worst of all, I'm convinced these faceless, nameless bastards don't know what the hell they're talking about. 'They' dispense their little nuggets of advice into mainstream society, which then eats up the half-truths and misinformation, and hurls it back up in the general direction of innocent bystanders -- like me -- who happen to be around.


Enough, I say. I'll be silently complicit in this charade no longer. It's time to dispel some myths around here, and shine the sweet, sweet light of truth on the things that 'they' tell you. Screw 'they'; what do 'they' know? 'They' can take a leap into a garbage bin.


So let's clear the air on a few subjects where 'they' haven't given you the real story. I think you'll agree that the world according to Charlie makes far more sense than what 'they' would have you believe.

'They' say: 'The best revenge is living well.'

Charlie sez: No. Giving the douchebag who screwed you over a big fat chocolate swirly, pissing in his coffee cup, selling him out to the IRS, and then living well -- that's the best revenge.


'They' say: 'You can't hurry love.'
Charlie sez: No. When you've crammed yourself and a loved one, half-naked and drooling, into an airplane bathroom at altitude, and the pilot turns on the 'Fasten Seatbelt' sign, then you'll pick up the pace, boyo, or there won't be any 'love' at all.


'They' say: 'It's always in the last place you look.'

Charlie sez: No. If it was in the last stupid place I looked, then why would I be wasting my freaking time looking in the next place? Poppycock!


'They' say: 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'
Charlie sez: No. Absence may make the hands grow 'fondlier', and the palms grow hairier, and it'll certainly make the bones grow jumpier, but the heart isn't really involved so much. And would you really want your heart growing and shrinking like that? I've got a couple of lungs who would be pretty pissed off if the heart started swelling into their airspace every time my wife left the house.


'They' say: 'Our love won't pay the rent.'

Charlie sez: No. If you're an attractive young lady, and you put satin sheets on the bed, hire a midget, and set up a webcam on your dresser, there's a pretty fair chance that it will pay the rent. Or at least pay for the sheets, the midget, the webcam, and possibly the dresser. So really, what have you got to lose, ladies?


'They' say: There's no time like the present.
Charlie sez: No. I was here just a few minutes ago, and it was pretty much exactly the same as right now. And now. And... now. All those times are just like the present. Away with your lies!


'They' say: 'If you want something done right, do it yourself.'

Charlie sez: No. If you want something done right that doesn't involve carpentry, electricity, plumbing, surgery, power tools, upholstery, hula dancing, mountain climbing, sprinting, hostage negotiation, rocket fuel, open flames, meteorology, boxing, liquid nitrogen, European hookers, or any activity that involves the word 'plunging', then by all means, feel free to do it yourself. But really, what's left? Changing the channel, and scratching your ass, basically. And who wants to do either of those yourself? That's what spouses are for.

Okay, I think that's enough for now. But if you've been troubled by anything that 'they' have told you, let me know in the comments or in an email. Don't be a slave to what 'they' tell you, friends. The wisdom of Charlie is the one true path.



(Yeah, okay, that's not true, either. But I'm not quite as full of shit as 'they' are, so who are you gonna believe, eh? It's a two-party system. You don't have a choice!)

Like many people in today's hectic world, I've been blessed with recurring insomnia. For most, this condition would be a liability; as a writer, it's actually quite useful. I pen more gibberish after three am than most people do... well, ever, to be fair.


But eventually, all good sleepless nights must come to an end. So I've tried a few ways to bring on the snoozes, when counting sheep just won't do. Feel free to use any or all of the techniques below -- just make sure you're really ready to hit the sack. This is powerful medicine; proceed with caution.


Drink a glass of warm milk:
Generally, this doesn't work, of course. It seems to be some sort of old wives' tale. What old wives have against the rest of us enjoying a night's rest, I don't know, but drinking a full glass of lukewarm moo juice will leave you bleary-eyed and milkstached, but not particularly drowsy. Still, you've got to start somewhere. And you can always graduate to a nice, warm glass of milk and coconut rum -- hold the milk. That'll put you to sleep, but you'd better be sure to cancel those morning meetings the next day.


Read a book:

This is great, if you happen to have 'The Bridges of Madison County' lying around, or you keep 'Principles of Organic Chemistry' on your nightstand. It's somewhat less effective if the closest book handy is 'The Amityville Horror', or an audiobook from the Steven King 'Rabid Machete Zombies' collection. Instead of sleeping, you might spend the night hiding under the covers, hoping that the creaking outside your window is just the wind. Of course, those of us who are truly proficient with insomnia don't have to worry so much -- we're not going to bed until after dawn, anyway, so there's no 'dark' for bogeymen to go 'bump' in. Still, it's not such a good idea to seed your dreams with the horrific imagery that today's writers can dream up. There's sleeping, and then there's 'unconscious night sweating'. Stick to the textbooks and tearjerkers, if you go this route.


Listen to soothing music:
Again, this is a great idea in theory -- but one person's 'soothing' is another person's... well, Hootie and the Blowfish, for instance. Sure, their music is soft and lilting, but 'easy listening', my sleep-deprived ass. My ears would find steel-wool Q-tips more 'soothing' than that audiodrivel. Luckily, any music can soothe the insomnial beast, so long as it's played softly enough. Sometimes, Rage Against the Machine at three-and-a-half decibels -- or Nine Inch Nails, at a volume only dogs can hear -- is just what the sleep doctor ordered.


Exercise:

Frankly, I've only tried this method once. I get the idea -- the physical activity, late at night, should sap whatever energy your body has remaining, and let you slip sweetly off to dreamland. Fine. But remember, your hand-eye coordination and reflexes won't be up to par, after staying awake for hours past your bedtime. And it can be rather embarrassing to explain to the ambulance crew how you backhanded yourself down a flight of stairs, doing jumping jacks at four in the morning. EMTs can be so cruel sometimes.


Watch LifeTime:

No, really. Anything on LifeTime. The Oxygen network works, too. Or the Golf Channel. Or any shopping network -- unless you're one of those people with a shopping problem, of course. You're not doing anyone any good, lying there on the couch for three hours ordering commemorative Jackson trial dinner plates. But short of that, this is clearly the way to go. There are hundreds of channels out there; surely, you can find one that'll put you to sleep. You call them 'DirecTV', but I'm calling them 'Sandman'. Don't let the bed bugs bite!

People often ask me: 'How can I become a smartass like you?'


Not in so many words, of course. Often they ask: 'Why the hell are you such a smartass?'


Or: 'You think you're so cool, don't you?'


Or even: 'You know the restraining order says one hundred feet! Would you get out of my panties drawer?!'


But the intention is clear -- they want to be a smartass, just like me. And in the interest of sneering petty snarkophiles everywhere, I'm going to tell you how.


Being a smartass is very simple; there are only two rules you need to follow.

1. Tell people what they most want to hear, with a straight face.

2. Then tell them the truth.

(The South Park fan inside me wants very much to add: '3. Profit!'. To which I say:


'What the hell is this South Park fan doing inside me? You know the restraining order says one hundred feet!!'


That's a 'callback', folks. It's one of those comedical techniques you read about in the books. No extra charge for that.


This time.)


Those two simple rules are all you need, really. With a bit of practice and some loving encouragement, even a child could become a serviceable smartass .Hell, a monkey could do it. Maybe even a telemarketer -- though Darwinism dictates that we really shouldn't interact with their kind in any way that doesn't involve heavy blunt objects. And possibly a taser.


The key thing to remember about being a smartass is the turning point between 'sugary sweet' and 'brutally honest'. It's crucial to be polite and helpful, right up until the key word comes out of the victim's mouth: 'Really?' Then, all bets are off.


Let's see the rules in action, shall we? We'll need a patsy for this -- a clueless sort, naive and oblivious to the gathering stromclouds. So I'll make up a rube, our smartass foil du jour -- we'll call her 'Jilly'.


Now, imagine Jilly out there trying on pants somewhere. Possibly in a mall. You, the budding smartass, have somehow been roped into tagging along. You'd much rather be doing something else. Maybe there's football on TV, or garbage to take out, or fresh poodle plop to rub in your hair while you sing 'I'm a Little Teapot'. Basically, anything to get away from yammering Jilly and her shopping-spree shenanigans. So, when she emerges from the dressing room with a pair of capris stretched around her frame, straining and groaning at the seams, you could play it thusly:


Jilly: Do these pants make my butt look big?

Smartass: No, not at all. Really, they're quite fetching on you.
Jilly: Really?

Smartass: No, not really. They're squishing your enormous ass like an oversized pressed ham. Maybe if you'd tuck the bottom of your cheeks into your socks, that would be better.


See how easy? And after that exchange, you'll never have to suffer through another trip to the mall ever again. Trust me.*


(* Technique not recommended for use on wives, steady girlfriends, women who carry mace, ladies with canes, 'foxy boxers', or large black women prone to saying 'Oh no you di'n't!!!'.)


So, that was an easy one. Let's try another.


Say you're over at Jilly's house, helping her out. She's not the wiggliest dildo on the nightstand, remember, so you're trying to do your civic duty and assist the less clueful in the neighborhood. Maybe you're there, opening her mail -- because otherwise, she might stab herself in the eye with the letter opener, or lose her virginity to one of those AOL CDs they're always sending around. In this scenario, she might see you opening a 'Publisher's Clearing House' letter, and say:


Jilly: Ooh! Ooh! It says I may have won! I may have won! Did I win? I bet I did.
Smartass: Why... yes! Look at this -- you won! It says right here, eleven million dollars!

Jilly: Wow! Really?
Smartass: No. You didn't win, and you never will. And if you do, they won't give you any money. Ed McMahon will come to your house, pee in your orange juice, and leave. You're a moron. Now put down that AOL CD, and for crissakes, put some pants on.


See, that's public service, there. Making idiots more realistic about the poor, sad, lonely, peed-in-breakfast-drink kind of life they're likely to lead. Being a smartass is not only loads of fun, it's also good for society. We're, like, doctors or therapists or strippers or something.


And you don't have to wait for an opening to be a smartass. Oh, no. You can pull smartassery out of thin air, in most any situation. Say, for instance, that our friendly rube Jilly can't find her cat. She's lost it, or eaten it, or squished it under those capri tents she's wearing -- who knows? But you've been recruited to help find the finicky feline; what better time to practice your smartass lessons? To wit:


Smartass: Oh... hey! I think I found it! I found your cat!

Jilly: Omigawd! I thought I'd never see Mr. Fluffers again! Really?
Smartass: No. Not really. Your cat's probably in somebody's moo goo gai pan by now. Hah!


Mean? Yes, I suppose. But really, should the morons of the world be trusted with pet ownership in the first place? I think not. That's how yappy lap terrier rats and crazy cat ladies get started. Why not nip the nonsense in the bud, with a well-aimed verbal jab or two?


I hope these lessons have helped you see that just about anyone can be a smartass. Why, with a little hard work and practice, even the nicest and most unassuming among us can make a contribution, and become a smartass. Hey, maybe even you!


(Did you just say, 'Even me? REALLY?'



Sheesh.)