I don't remember the exact situation; I was dealing with some challenge or disappointment or a girl who'd put gum in my hair. Or who hadn't put gum in my hair, or who didn't appreciate the gum I'd put into her hair. Something traumatic like that.

Anyway, I remember my dad sat me down, heard me out, and then offered a single piece of fatherly wisdom:

"Son, life isn't about the things that happen to you. The question is, when those things happen, what sort of man will you become?"

(I think it was my dad who said that. Come to think of it, I might have been a Growing Pains rerun. Or Family Ties. I have this strong feeling of being annoyed with Tina Yothers in there somewhere.

You know what, screw it. My old man can have this one. I'm giving it to him.)

"I can finally tell my father -- and anyone else who wants to know -- what kind of man I've become."

Of course, I didn't have an answer to the question then. I was still a kid. I had no idea what things would happen as I grew up, or how I'd react or which people would be putting their gum into which other peoples' hairs.

But now, I know. Decades of experience later, and I have the answers. I can finally tell my father -- and anyone else who wants to know -- what kind of man I've become. To wit:

I'm the kind of man who:

• compulsively eats every last crumb of food on my plate. My parents swear they didn't teach me to do this, but I still have the odd feeling that every time I clean my plate, some starving kid in India magically gets a bowl of chicken tikka.


• will push a door I'm walking through open wide, in case there's someone right behind me coming through. But I won't actually look for someone behind me, because I don't actually care whether I'm helping anyone specifically; I just want to feel like I'm being courteous.


• wouldn't stop to pick up a dollar bill on the sidewalk. Not because I'm not greedy or don't want another dollar, but because I assume all public unspoken-for money is a setup for some kind of hidden-camera show to make people look like jackasses.


• believes that probability is the driving force of the universe, which makes life less like a search for a unique and special purpose, and more like trying to win a round of Bingo.


• is never going to buy the big thing that everyone has, because everyone already has it. Clearly, I'd rather buy the thing that's better than that other thing, because of reasons everyone else failed to think of, and then be smug about it to no one who gives a flying damn any more, and has probably already bought the next new big thing anyway.


• harbors an intense and active hatred for certain companies who've screwed me over (Verizon and UPS, for instance), while openly admitting that the only reason their competitors haven't screwed me over is that they haven't gotten around to it yet.


• will usually refrain from telling rude and inappropriate jokes in polite company, but will never stop thinking of rude and inappropriate jokes in polite company.


• will gleefully use all the bad words there are, and a few I made up myself, except the ones associated with where a person is from, who they want to boink and which part of the bus some people want them to sit on.


• suggests the invitation should be for the wedding reception, with attendance at the actual ceremony optional. We all know why we're really here, people. Let's cut the charade.


• eats his fish 'n' chips with the ketchup on the fish, and the tartar sauce on the French fries. Because why the hell not?


• recycles my soda bottles at work, even though I know for a fact that the cleaning staff dumps them all into the regular trash bin when they clean up at night. (See "holding open doors" above.)


• still counts the stairs I'm climbing, but no longer (usually) has to touch the last one twice if the number of steps is odd.


• buys all my music in digital form and all my books in paperback. Because I'm not "old school" or "new school"; I just like the smell of books more than CD cases or Kindles.


• rejects the idea that there's some force or spirit in the aether looking out for me, because if that were true, there would probably be two or three others specifically out to get me. And that would be scary as all shit.


• will tolerate the presence of an uninvited critter in my home, so long as it A) comes alone, B) stays away from where I sleep, eat and bathe and C) has the common decency to own less than six-and-a-half legs.


• hasn't left the seat up on any toilet I've used since 1987. Because hell hath no fury.


• contends that people who greedily fail to respect the alternating "zipper" method of merging two lanes of traffic should be hung upside down from their radiator hoses under a low overpass, just in time for a passing oil tanker parade.


• leaves bigger tips than most people, but not so large that the waitress is actually going to want to talk to me about it afterward.


• may not agree with what you say, but will defend to the death my right to walk briskly away from you while you're spouting whatever ignorant claptrap is on your mind.


• is obligated to think of one more thing, because that makes an even twenty, and I won't sleep well tonight unless this train wreck feels like its wrapped up in a neat little round-numbered bow.

I'm not so sure Dad's going to be so keen on this stuff. Or understand some of it. Or want to hear anything about any of it.

Maybe I'll paste it in an email and send it to Alan Thicke, or Meredith Baxter-Birney. That seems safer. Yeah, I'll go with that.

I find that this happens all the time. Even when it comes to personal philosophy.

Or perhaps, especially when it comes to personal philosophy. Sometimes the closedest of closed books is other people. Particularly when they're trying to tell you how to live.

"Sometimes the closedest of closed books is other people."

For instance, take this truism that seems to orient a fair number of people into a particular philosophical mindset:

"Things could always be worse."

People usually say this after something awful has happened. It's ostensibly meant to cheer someone up who's just gone through some awful injury, trauma or modern Star Wars sequel. As in, "Sure, you broke your arm, but you could have broken both." Or "Hey, at least there weren't two Jar-Jar's in that train wreck."

I for one don't find this comforting. It comes off as a guilt trip. Sure, you have it tough. But something worse happened to someone else at some point, probably, and you don't her him complaining.

Of course, that poor bastard is probably dead, what with the two broken arms and the George Lucas nightmare tearing apart his soul. But, see? Things could always be worse!

The pinnacle of this line of thinking is the old proverb which says:

"I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet."

Frankly, I don't see how that changes things. The author's still running around shoeless, probably stepping on rocks and bees and other sharp things. The footless guy doesn't have this problem. And besides, if the other guy's got no feet, then maybe he's got an old pair of shoes to give away. He's not using them. Help a barefoot brother out, is all I'm saying.

The point is, the message of "things could always be worse" seems to me to be: shut up and deal, because you got off easy and other people have been hit by lightning and eaten by bears and sat through the English Patient, and I don't even want to sign your cast any more, ya crybaby.

I'm paraphrasing, of course. Obviously, no one has sat through the whole English Patient movie without crawling out of the theater or committing hara kiri with a Twizzler in the balcony. But you get the idea.

Now, contrast that with a favorite phrase of mine, which I nearly exclusively use when things are going reasonably well:

"It can always get worse."

See the difference?

No? Fine. Nobody ever seems to.

Here's the thing -- my saying is a warning. A checkpoint. A simple "be prepared" and don't get overly comfortable, because the universe will throw you a curveball now and then. I don't say this when someone's been run over by a bus, and I don't invoke some tale about how some other person was once run over by two buses, so zip your feeding tube hole and be thankful. No. That would be rude.

Instead, I say it at happier times, when our collective guards might be down and we might need a gentle reminder that life can be an up-and-down sort of experience. These are the situations for "it can always get worse" -- wedding toasts, for instance. Birthday parties. In Christmas cards. Right after sex.

Now you see the difference. When "things could always be worse" than some awful tragedy that just happened, the horrors are limited only to our imaginations. This horrible event could be just the first of many -- and certainly not the worst so far, what with all the broken-limbed, footless cretins apparently limping around in the past.

But when "it can always get worse" than, say, a birthday party? Well, sure, there's probably no birthday party tomorrow. Or if there is, then they might serve vanilla cake or store-bought cookies or graham crackers and prune juice. That would certainly be "worse". But nobody has to lop off their feet, or feel bad about some Greyhound-trampled jerkhole in a body cast taking it all in stride. That's his problem. We've got a pinata here. Carry on.

But just remember: it can always get worse.

(Of course, the inverse isn't necessarily true. I watch a few "foodie" shows, and I couldn't cook my way out of a microwave popcorn bag.)

Generally, I figure an awful lot of people I run into must be watching Jackass rerun marathons every few hours, but that's not the point just now. Instead, I'm thinking about the viewing habits of a woman in my office. And I'm convinced she's into Columbo, the old police show starring Peter Falk.

Now, maybe you're not familiar with this particular show. Perhaps you don't watch a lot of detective dramas, or you're not ridiculously old enough to have caught it in its heyday. Or, possibly, you're really ungodly old, and you were busy watching Matlock and Walker, Texas Ranger instead.

"That's loosely translated from Latin. Via the Temptations."

(But you're reading a blog. So you can't be that old, surely. Unless your AOL search is acting up, and sent you here accidentally. So sorry.)

Anyway, why Columbo? Because, in his parlance, this lady follows Columbo's M.O. That's modus operandi, of course, meaning "the way you do the things you do".

That's loosely translated from the Latin. Via the Temptations.

I'm not saying this person has adopted all of Detective Columbo's various peculiarities. For instance, he wore a shabby overcoat and chewed cigars a lot. So far as I know, she doesn't do this. Maybe in the privacy of her own home. I haven't asked.

What she does emulate quite well is Columbo's particular style of interrogation. Which is particularly unsettling, given that she's not actually a detective. And that I'm not a perp. And that she only comes to my office to ask computer questions. Frankly, I'm not quite sure how to respond.

She'll come sauntering in aimlessly -- very Columboesque, you know -- and start with a bit of harmless-seeming chitchat. The weather. The weekend. Woolly mammoths, for all I know -- I usually tune this part out.

Next come the questions. Little ones at first, just nibbles. How much RAM does this take? Can I open this other thing in Excel? What's a megabyte? Every once in a while, the interrogation will cover old material; that's when I feel like a '70s-style suspect from the show, with an overwide collar and paisley socks and maybe a body stuffed under the stairs.

"We've covered this!" I say.

"Oh yeah, of course, sure. That's right. I just wanted to make sure."

And so I smile that tired indulgent smile that the perps used to smile at Columbo, and we let the session run its course. She gets her information, bit by bit, drip by drip, until finally there's nothing left to learn. And then she stands, and heads for the door.

And she reaches the doorway.

And she turns.

And then, invariably, like Falk reincarnated, rest his stogie-chomping soul, she squints a little and waggles a finger back in my direction and delivers the signature, soul-crushing, suspect-damning line:

"Er, ah... just one more thing...."

And then she asks another half hour of questions, and I wish I actually did have a body under my stairs so I could tell the cops about it and escape. But I don't. So I can't. And the dance of faux Columbo goes on.

It could be worse, I suppose. She could be like one of those other TV detectives. The really nasty ones on Law and Order: SVU, for instance. She could come in slamming doors and desks and growl, "NOW HOW DO I MAKE A PIVOT TABLE, SLIMEBALL?!"

That would be uncomfortable. Possibly preferable, on some days. But definitely uncomfortable.

Instead, we're locked in on Columbo. It's almost like it was still on television, in fact. Every week, for about an hour, we have our episode. Thirty minutes in, the "just one more thing", only there are no commercial breaks and I don't get thrown in jail at the end. I suppose at this rate, when I can see it coming, it's just about manageable.

But if this lady ever goes into syndication? And schedules an all-day Columbo marathon?

No. At that point, I'm out. I'm a patient man and all, but I'm sorry. If it gets any worse, this lady will just have to go Falk herself. Series cancelled.

(Not really; I'm being euphemistic. She's actually in an urn on our bookshelf.

And probably peeing in it.)

Without a mutt to meander with, I don't walk around the neighborhood as much as I used to. And when I do make the local rounds, I apparently don't pay much attention to the signage. Because it was just yesterday that I noticed, a couple of blocks over, an old sign on an apartment building that reads:

Please Keep Dogs on Leash
Clean Up Mess
$25-$200 Fine for Violations

Now, the leash thing I've got no issue with. We kept our dog on a leash at all times outside because, frankly, she was kind of an idiot. Oh, there was little chance -- in her last eight years or so, anyway -- that she'd bolt into traffic or run away to join a fleabitten circus or something. But she was curious, and stubborn, and off leash she would've wound up sniffing poop behind a thorn bush or up a telephone pole or some other dumb inaccessible place. Leashing was just easier.

"This poop math, it's not an exact science."

Likewise, I'm all for people -- including me -- cleaning up their dog's droppings. My wife and I were quite diligent about this, partly because it's just the polite and neighborly and responsible thing to do.

But also because if we left a pile of turds lying around somewhere, we're the sort of people who are likely to step in it later. So "neighborly", yes. But also, we just don't watch where we walk so much, and we can only tolerate so many pairs of stink-ass shoes.

(I've done some math on this subject, by the way. We had our dog for twelve-and-a-half years. At two bowls of kibble a day, plus Snausages and biscuits and whatever she snarfed from strangers, and four to six walks per day, lessee... carry the one, an extra walk on weekends, and... I estimate that we've bagged roughly forty-three billion turds since the turn of the century.

Give or take a steamer. This poop math, it's not an exact science.)

It's really the last part of the sign that concerns me. Not because there's a fine. Not because of the size of the fine. What concerns me is that there's a range of values to the fine. Which makes me wonder:

What criteria determine the size of a dog poop fine? And who decides?

I picture a guy, some flunky on the police force or at the county courthouse, whose job is to review the turd files. Maybe he goes over pictures or forensic evidence. Maybe he even interviews witnesses:

"Was the poodle fully in the azalea patch, or just hovering its butt above?"
"This doesn't look like malamute plop. Are you certain it was a malamute, sir?"
"What the hell are you feeding that thing -- firecrackers with sriracha sauce?!"

Probably not once of those "love your job" kinds of job. But now I almost want a dog, so I can walk it over to the apartment building and leave piles of terrier turds on the lawn until someone catches me. Not maliciously; I just want to see the process. Is a sidewalk stain an extra twenty bucks? Do you pay more for spread, if it's not in one of those curly little piles? These are questions just sitting up and begging for answers. It'd even be worth a hundred bucks to find out.

Or a hundred and fifty, if I take a Saint Bernard. Those mothers can poooop.

We could also say that the last ice age ended a little while and a smidgen ago, or that the sun coalesced from a cloud of hot cosmic gas two or three little whiles ago. But we won't do that. Will we? No. We won't.

As we often do at anniversary time, we decided to get away for the weekend. In the past, we've gone to more or less 'down to earth' places -- Maine; Providence, Rhode Island; the movies -- but this time we decided to hit another New England spot that we'd never gotten the chance to see: Martha's Vineyard.

"I figured it was a bunch of people with polo mallets and stiff haircuts drinking out of highball glasses and wearing white at the appropriate times, but never at the non-appropriate times, whenever the hell those are, respectively."

Now, I didn't know much about what happens on Martha's Vineyard. I figured it was a bunch of people with polo mallets and stiff haircuts drinking out of highball glasses and wearing white at the appropriate times, but never at the non-appropriate times, whenever the hell those are, respectively. And it totally is that, in some places on the island. Those are not the places I'm allowed to go, or to be seen near, or to reference by name here, lest the inhabitants look sternly down their noses at me in contempt. So I won't.

We were, however, allowed entry into quite a fair number of Martha's Vineyard locales, and they weren't quite so posh as to turn us away completely. Sit us in a corner, perhaps. Throw a presumably stylish and high thread count sheet over us, sure. But we still got to eat, or drink, or shop as we liked, so long as we didn't scare the fancy folk.

But the clearest hint that I may not be a 'Vineyard person' was that I couldn't even figure out how to describe it. People asked me if we were going away this weekend, and where, and I didn't know what to tell them.

"We'll be at the Vineyard." ?

That sounds a little too polo-mallet for my non-blue blood.

"We'll be on the Vineyard." ?

It is an island, after all. And frankly, I'm not sure I saw any grape vines anywhere we went. But syntactically, this sentence makes no sense to me. Unlike:

"We'll be in the Vineyard."

That sounds more like a weekend I would have -- possibly including sleeping there, among the sauvignons and burgundies and Concords or whatever. I don't really know from grapes. But they do look pretty comfy after a long day of wine sipping.

So I don't know how to describe it -- at least, not without breaking the rules of grammar or sounding like a Kennedy's poor suburbanite illegitimate cousin. But it's been a great trip. We've had a nice ferry ride over. A romantic dinner and evening at the hotel. And tomorrow, we'll visit an alpaca farm and a brewery.

Those are two different places, by the way. They're not actually brewing beer next to alpacas, and serving pints in soft wool coozies or something.

At least, they're not yet. I'll talk to them both tomorrow; maybe we can work something out. Meanwhile, it's anniversary weekend. I'm checking out -- from the Vineyard. G'night.