Snakes and rats don’t need much of an explanation, but let me continue…

I don’t care if it’s the buffet at the local diner or the one at the Bellagio, they make the top three list of scary things in the book of Sanfilippo.

It’s not the food that fills the steam table or the salad bar loaded with fresh greens, it’s the people that stand in line and partake of the buffet that freak me out.

I’ve seen people take food off buffets with their forks. Put something on a dirty plate and put it back. Touch food with their bare fingers. Scratch themselves then grab the soup ladle. Sneeze, wipe their hands on the pants, then reach for a roll.

I’m gagging just writing about it.

Some people just love buffets. For $9.99 they can stuff themselves silly on Grade D beef, well done chicken, something that resembles fish and still have room for soft serve ice cream from a machine that may not have been sanitized in a while.

On a recent layover, I stopped in the airline’s lounge to catch up on email. After a few beers, I had to answer nature’s call. As I was walking away from the urinal, a man came out of the stall, walked over to the mirror, straightened his shirt and walked out of the restroom.

Soap and water never touched his hands, but as I made my way through the club, I caught him knuckles deep in a bowl of peanuts.

I politely asked the bartender to throw the nuts away.

One of the first things parents teach their children is how to wash their hands. It’s also the first thing adults forget how to do.

Poor hygiene is blamed for the outbreaks of norovirus on cruise ships. One passenger who feels he/she doesn’t need to use hot water and a little soap after making wee wee can wreak havoc on vacation goers as we’ve seen during the past few weeks on the Crown Princess from Princess Cruise Line.

When an outbreak of the stomach bug hits a ship, the first thing they do is close down self service buffets. Why? Because they’re the easiest place for germs to be carried from one person to another and a big reason why these bountiful displays of food scare the crap out of me.

Now if we can only stop the germ carrying custom of shaking hands, I’ll be much happier.

Like millions of Americans, I’m hoping for a refund.

At the same time, I’m reminded that hope springs eternal.

While going through all the scraps of paper that make up this bundle, I found stuff that sparked a few memories, a chuckle and about ten minutes of fighting back tears.

I found the receipt for $32.50 for 9 holes of golf, club rentals and a cart. Looking at the faded piece of paper, I couldn’t tell if this was before or after I wasted money on lessons. I did recall that this game lasted all of three holes before I threw the clubs back in the cart and said, “%$#@ this.”

There was the receipt for the Indian restaurant I begrudgingly went to with a group of friends that gave me an intense fear of this type of cuisine that will remain with me for life.

A tax form for the $1250 I won at a casino made it into the box. I remember that night pretty well. I put $50 in a $5 machine and in three spins, I won. Like a good boy, I left with my winnings in my pocket and I haven’t been back since; making me just the kind of customer casinos love.

Then there was the folder with thousands upon thousands of dollars of medical bills for my buddy, Peanut. “Damn it,” I said as I went through page upon page reading doctors notes detailing his condition and what we were to do to make his final months as comfortable as possible.

As a tear came to my eye, I looked down to my right at Baby who’s sound asleep in the bed she would share with her best friend. As she snored, I tossed the file into the trash, sealed up the box and sent it off to be shipped.

Just then the phone rang.

“What’s the matter, you sound a little down. Is everything ok?” the voice on the other end asked.

“Yep, everything is fine. Just gathering stuff for my taxes.”

I can’t imagine that it’s worth as much as say, a Picaso, but it has to be worth something.

The artist is an unknown, who simply goes by the name Kelly Ann.

Its whimsy splashes of color on the canvas have no rhyme or reason and it doesn’t bear a fancy name like “Springtime in Mauch Chunk.”

I was hosting a weekly talk radio program about pets at the time and the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Baily Circus was in town. Along with giving away circus tickets, I had the opportunity to go onsite and interview one of the elephant trainers.

Off to the circus I went, microphone and recorder in hand to learn about what it takes to travel the country with these amazing – and huge – animals. I chatted with Troy Metzler, a longtime Ringling elephant trainer, who talked about how they’re transported, the massive amounts of food they consume, how they’re cared for day in and day out, and about Ringling’s Center for Elephant Conservation in Florida.

I got to get up close and personal with these gentle giants who convinced me that they’re smarter than some humans. Although apparently not smart enough to “hold it” until the interview was over, but that trait keeps a guy with a shovel employed.

I aired the interview and had a representative from the circus in the studio to talk about the other animals that make up the Greatest Show on Earth. Before leaving, she presented me with a painting done by one of the “stars” of the circus – a two year old Asian elephant.

Before each performance, Kelly Ann would display her skills by taking trunk to tempra to create original “elephant art.” A quick Google search shows that the pachyderm, who is now 12, still delights audiences with her artistic abilities.

From the bonds they form with humans and other elephants, to their gentle nature that is often displayed in venues like the circus, elephants are fascinating creatures. Some may argue that using animals for entertainment is wrong, but we all have our own opinions.

I don’t think I’m holding onto a piece of art that’s going to make me rich, but I’m holding onto something that has special meaning.

Even if it’s from an elephant.

“Who are you rooting for?” I was continually asked.

“I don’t even know who’s playing,” I would reply.

“You don’t know who’s playing? It’s the Super Bowl man!” one guy said to me.

“I could really care less, man” I replied as I turned to the bartender and asked if she could put Animal Planet on so I could watch the Puppy Bowl.

My request was denied, so I watched grown men in tight pants, throw a ball around while I ate my beef fried dumplings.

A few of us talked about how good Madonna looked despite being “in her sixties” as one person said. I quickly Googled the correct age. 53.

I missed the middle finger play by some wanna-be-musical-entertainer named M.I.A.

I loved Cee Lo Green. In fact, I love anyone who can have hit song built around the f-word.

I saw a few commercials, but none sent my heart aflutter. Not even the wet-dream inducing one for Fiat. Clint Eastwood’s commercial for Dodge was powerful, but I still don’t know what the hell those two minutes were all about.

Social media got a good showing with nearly all the commercials bearing a Twitter hashtag and some even used their Facebook URL instead of their dot-com address. Hmmmm…. maybe this social media stuff is finally starting to catch on.

As I finished the last bite of my Chicken Jo Lau, some guy cheered as someone made a touchdown. Another guy said, “it’s over,” took one last swig of his beer and sauntered out the door. I took his queue, paid my bill and to the valet.

“Are you a Giants or Patriots fan?” the attendant asked.

“I don’t like football,” I said.

“Exactly the reason why I’m working tonight sir,” he replied.

And here I thought I was the only one.

The same insane ritual continued with the second, third and fourth round.

Finally, I had enough.

“What are we cheering here?” I asked. “Are we cheering each other on to see who can drink the most the fastest?”

“It’s just something you do,” he replied.

“I really don’t want to do it anymore,” I said as I got a look that would have stopped a train.

Just like we bless someone when they sneeze (with or without reference to God), saying cheers before taking a drink is one of those things that originated thousands of years ago. A quick search in Google reveals that there isn’t a definitive answer to where and why this custom originated, but many theories abound.

Cheers and bless you may be annoying, but they make up only a small portion of little customs and superstitions that make their way into everyday life.

A Romanian friend of mine screamed like a stuck pig when she saw me put a pair of shoes on a table – apparently that means I’ll be turned into goulash or something.

I saw someone throw salt over their shoulder after spilling some and stood by in amazement as a female friend cried for ten minutes because she broke a mirror.

She blamed her breakdown on PMS.

Tonight at dinner, I’ll politely decline the cheers and deal with the scorn of my dinning companion for the rest of the evening.

Or instead of clinking glasses, I’ll break wind.

I wonder what you say when that happens.

Another crazy day designed to remind us to do “something.”

Anything to waste more time.

If you’re like me, if you actually went through all the websites you have passwords for, it would take a little more than a day to change them all.

So why bother?

I tend to have the same password for everything. Six letters and numbers that have been with me forever and have little to no meaning.

Where I really get messed up are those sites that require a minimum of eight characters, including one capital letter, one number and one symbol.

Really?

I have one bank account that is perfectly fine with my standard six characters. I have another account with the same bank that requires a password that I couldn’t remember if I tried. If my simple password is good for one account, why not the other?

I have one of those programs on my laptop that remembers my passwords, but it doesn’t run on my iPad or iPhone, so what good is it?

Looking through that program I see 1,272 websites that passwords are saved for. Some I remember creating passwords for, others like “Latvian Women of the Net” I won’t claim ownership of.

While I do have a remarkable memory, even without Ginkgo Biloba, there are times when I find myself being held captive for forgetting a password. I can only imagine this is going to become more frequent as website operators attempt to beef up security by requiring users to create more complex passwords.

In the mean time, I’ll keep my fingers crossed that my 10 year old, six character password and eight character alternate don’t get discovered by some scallywag who wants to put sinister posts on my Facebook wall.

If that same scallywag wants to renew my subscription to that Latvian Women site… go ahead.

Just use a credit card number you stole from someone else who used a weak password on their bank account.

Only you never feel it.

But it still stings.

I was looking to send an email to one of my friends on Facebook the other day, and I couldn’t bring up her name. I thought I had the right spelling, so I tried again. And again. And again.

I was un-friended. And blocked.

I felt a little weird. I thought we were friends, but I guess not.

In the world of social media, the un-friending is the equivalent of a break-up. The social relationship has ended and it’s time to move on.

But breaking up is hard to do.

I got to thinking what I did to get this virtual dissing. Was it something I said? Was it something I didn’t say? Was it that picture I tagged her in? What was it?

I went through my friend list to see if there were others who dumped me silently and without regret. I found people who I’ve worked with for years – and even gave them their first job out of college – dumped me. I found people I went to school with among the missing on my friend list. Some I friend-requested back to see if they would accept, others blocked me from requesting their friendship.

Whoa!

This is heavy shit. This borders on mental abuse!

I shouldn’t dwell on the fact that people I thought were friends, weren’t, but it does bother me enough to write about it.

Facebook is kind enough to not let you know when you’ve been dumped, so you have to rely on other means to determine who gave you the virtual heave-ho. Just be strong and don’t take it too personal if you use one of these tools.

Like I keep saying to myself… it’s only Facebook!

I also look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t one of my parents who dumped me.

What drives people to overpay for previously frozen baked goods and obscenely priced coffee?

I asked a friend of mine what the big attraction is and he couldn’t explain it – even though he’s one of these men who slither into a pair of skinny jeans, tops himself off with a sweater vest, throws on a pair of penny loafers, coiffs his hair, sprinkles himself with cologne/perfume and wastes the entire day sucking down coffee and free WiFi.

He hinted that his local Starbucks is more like a pick-up joint than a coffee shop, and that it’s usually the place soon-to-be friends with benefits go for their first in-person meeting before the matinee.

So much for the cofee and scones.

Places like Starbucks and Panera Bread attract a unique crowd. Like retirees who hang out at the donut shop, these hipper venues attract people who apparently don’t work, but can afford a $4 cup o’joe.

Many spend the day camped out with their netbook on the table and their cell phone dingie hanging off their ear waiting for their recruiter to call. While others make a quick stop to order a double-chi-extra-latee-super-cocoa-antioxidant-triple-espresso-honey-lemongrass tea.

With four sugars and easy on the ice.

To be honest, I’ve had only one Starbucks experience. I was in dire need of a cold soft drink and the coffee joint was the only place around. I swung the car into the drive-thru, ordered a large Coke and the voice in the speaker shouted back at me, “we don’t serve soda here.” I ended up with some sort of iced tea that reminded me of what it tasted like the time my mother washed my mouth out with soap for saying “shit.”

Despite my lack of “experience,” I am one of these voyers who looks at Starbucks from the outside and tries to piece together what makes them so successful and what attracts the individuals who make up this unique social menagerie.

I’m convinced it’s not the coffee, but rather the feel-good, social, don’t need a membership card to get in atmosphere that’s provided for free.

At least once a week I get an email or a call from someone asking me to meet them at Starbucks.

I decline every time, so please don’t ask anymore as I’d much rather go to McDonalds.

At least I can get a Coke.

Normally my writings have to do with something that pissed me off, made me stop and question common sense or an experience I had to suffer through and/or throughly enjoy.

But today was one of those days when I had a bunch of things whirring around in my head and I didn’t want to write about any of them.

Like how I bought a beautiful Gucci watch, but can’t get anyone at Gucci to call me back to get extra links for it so I can actually wear it. But then I would sound like a total grump because I wrote about how I hate the Apple Store and Comcast just a few days ago. I’ll save the Gucci assault for later.

Or how sick and tired I am of hearing about Joe Paterno’s death, viewing, funeral, memorial, celebration of life and whatever else kind of service they’re going to have for him. I don’t think this much media attention was given to the Pope when he died, but we did have a chimney to stare at in the hopes of seeing a puff of white smoke alerting the networks to go back to regular programming.

Or I could write about how happy I was that after 15 years, Baby finally walked up to me, let out a little bark, walked to the door and alerted me that she had to go outside to pee. Usually she just walks to the nearest pee pad, squats and empties her bladder on her own terms. I texted three people when this happened it was such a big event.

With so many interesting topics just ready to be written about, I abandoned all of them and turned to Facebook and asked those that follow me for suggestions.

Life as a Four-Eyes
I’m wearing glasses now, and not by choice. Turns out the red-eye look that I loved so much wasn’t very healthy according to my eye doctor, Mike. So during my last visit Mike said to me, “you have to stop wearing those f***ing contacts.” After arguing with him for 20 minutes, I conceded like a whiny fifth grader who just got yelled at by his teacher, walked over and picked out a semi-attractive pair of frames.

I now feel the part of a 40 year old, and look it.

All I need is bifocals to make my life complete.

Pinterest
The latest “thing” to join the time wasting, make-me-feel-good-about-myself, social media must have list is Pinterest. Wanting to see what all the excitement was about, I signed up for it the other day and patiently waited to see if I would be one of the lucky ones to get an invite to join.

It’s kind of like waiting to see if you’re going to get invited to the Policeman’s Ball every December.

Will the invite come?

Am I worthy?

Well mine came today, I created my account, looked at it, closed the browser window and went back to doing email.

I don’t get it.

One of my friends posted that he’s going to try to help his merchants make money by using it.

That’s a challenge.

Big companies are still trying to make money off of Twitter and Facebook.

I’m going to chalk this one up there with Google+. When days suddenly become 30 hours instead of 24, I’ll have time to see what all the fuss is about.

Google Privacy
Speaking of Google, someone asked me to write about Google’s new privacy policy. You know what I’m talking about, but in case you don’t, here’s the seven second version. Google is consolidating their privacy policies for all their products into one master policy that many fear goes too far.

If you’re one of those fear mongers who thinks that your car’s GPS unit is used by the IRS to track you down because you still haven’t paid your 1997 taxes, you better get an extra roll of tin-foil to make a sturdier hat if you’re going to continue to use Google.

Personally, I don’t care if Google knows I spend three hours a day searching for pictures of three-legged Vietnamese women or for websites related to Hedonism 2012. If you ain’t got nothing to hide, don’t worry about it I say.

Privacy advocates are raising all kinds of concerns about how Google is going to use all this data they collect. Simply put – they’re going to use it to make even more money off your web activity.  Doh!

I don’t get too upset over things like this, as I don’t expect privacy on the web. In today’s age, the only privacy I expect is when I’m in my house, under the covers with the lights out. and even then I have to double check to make sure I have the web cam turned off. Once you leave that cocoon and you venture out into the street cameras are watching your every move, your cell phone is tracking your current location, your credit card company knows you just spent $4.34 at McDonalds and Walgreens just sold your name to Fiber One because you bought a box of suppositories and scanned your frequent shopper card.

Cables
Doug the Cable Guy suggested this one. Don’t know where to even begin. But I’ll say this – like a good jock strap, sturdy cables are your best bet when you need good support.

Whoops, wrong kind of cables.

Maybe next time Doug.

Right after I bitch and moan about Gucci.

Alka Seltzer Cold with an expiration date of 10/2004.

My birth certificate.

A door key from a cruise I took in 2008.

A pack of screws.

And a lot of gift cards.

Restaurant gift cards I’m given always get redeemed for some reason. Home Depot, not so much. Same thing for the $5 igourmet.com card I had to reach way back in there for.

I’m a business owner’s best friend by not redeeming those. For some, I called the toll-free number on the back to see if there was a balance on them. Interestingly enough, some held their initial value, while others simply faded away adding to the company’s bottom line.

Knowing I’m not the only one who forgets about gift cards, I did a quick Google search to find out just how many of these things go unredeemed.

$30 billion.

Business have cropped up with their model based around that $30 billion. You’ll find websites that will give you cash for unused gift cards, ones that allow you to swap one card for another and ones that allow you to donate your gift cards to non-profits.

I don’t usually give gift cards, because there’s a chance that the card won’t be appropriate. Like that Home Depot card I got. Really? Do I look the handy-man type? But the card for Maggiano’s I got this Christmas? Yeah, that was a good fit.

I’m going to go through the rest of the drawer and see what other fun stuff that’s hiding out while forcing my memory to remember who would get me a $5 gift card.

It’s the thought that counts, right?