Dude, this is Whole Foods!!

I was in Whole Foods waiting at the deli counter to pay for a small green salad for $14.89 and a raw potato for $2.34, when a woman asked the deli guy where they kept the tubs of Greggs' Margarine.

The deli guy, of course, tried to be polite but wasn't very convincing. "I'm sorry," he kind of said. "Whole Foods doesn't carry Greggs' Margarine." But what I really heard before I put down my $14.89 salad and $2.34 raw potato:

"WTF, yo!?!? We're in Whole Foods, dude!! Greggs'?? Tubs of margarine!?!?? Get that weak shit out of here! You're not in WinCo, bro. This is Whole Foods! Sheeezes. Damn. You don't just come in here and ask for Greggs' tubs of margarine. Where do you think you are?? This ain't no IGA, fool! Unless it has carob and sprouting flax in it, no dice, no way. This is Whole Foods. You best be getting your ass out of here before I waste any more time talking to you!!"

Charlie Gibson is hogging air time

When I want the news, this is the face I want to give it to me. Who couldn't love this face? This is a face of a woman I can trust. I trust Elizabeth Vargas. I'd totally give her the keys to my car. I'd give her the keys to my home, actually. At the end of the day, I would trust her to do anything to me.

You know what I like about Elizabeth Vargas besides her striking deportment and firm enunciation and silky composure? I like that she isn't superficial. I've seen how she interviews dictators and republicans and such, and -- I tell you what -- she treats everyone with amazing fairness and sincerity, even when you can tell deep down she hates republicans. I love that. Maybe when she's tired of interviewing dictators and republicans, she'll want to interview me one day. I hope so. That would give her a break, and would be most welcome.

Elizabeth Vargas reminds me of My Lady, of course. Smart, unflappable and hott. The only troubling part about Elizabeth Vargas I can see, however, is her choice of man. I'm not one to judge, but I just don't know . . . doing the news all day and coming home to a moderately successful singer-songwriter . . . it's a bit unfortunate if you ask me. I mean, it's not like her man is a major full-fledged rock star. She's not married to Sting or Bono or Snoop Dog. And that song her man sings -- "Feel Like Walkin' in Memphis" -- is kind of uninspired when it gets right down to it. Walking in Memphis? Walking? Memphis? I've never been to Memphis, but walking there seems kind of . . . I don't know. Couldn't we have a better city to walk in or something? Toronto maybe?

Bottom line: I don't know what Liz sees in her man. He's probably not all that interesting and my guess is her man neglects her and is on the road too much. He's married to his music, I bet. Clearly, she didn't marry him for his looks or his choice of attire.

It's possible, of course, that Liz might have a history of being attracted to the wrong man. I've seen this kind of thing happen to the best again and again. It happened to my sister. And she turned out to be gay.

If Liz wants to stay married to Marc Cohn, fine. Whatevs. Okay by me. For all I know, she and her husband are relatively compatible, but don't quote me. I know I'd probably really impress her with my amazing personality, athleticism and awesome good looks and smashing taste, but I'm already married, so it's kind of a moot point I guess. Liz, if you're reading this: I've got My Lady, thank you very much. We're solid. Been together for a long, long time. Never mind that people compare me to Cary Grant and Michael Jordan and Eddie Vetter all the time, but whatever. I'm humble and that sort of thing. And really smart. I follow the news a lot. If you're ever in Portland, I could probably give you a tour at the KATU studio or maybe even one of the competitor affiliates. That could be awesome. We can talk shop, whatever. You can show me how you like your earpiece inserted and have a few laughs possibly. No pressure.

Moms (and dads) and their precious cargo

I watched a hipster mom perch her baby-man on a glass counter for a half hour so he could watch the scones and muffins below. The precious cargo baby-man was dressed like a fully employed Intel employee, which made me make a disgusted face. Actually, he might've been dressed as an architect. Nothing against architects, but I don't like architects. Too smug. Sorry architects. No architect at any age should dress like an architect. Especially not babies.

Anyhoo, Hipster Mom had her baby-man sitting above goodies while she pointed and gave them names. I guess she was waiting until her precious cargo baby-man let out a coo. Oh brother. Teachable moment maybe, but let's not showboat all that mothering while blocking the espresso line.

And since when have parents spent goodly sums of money to make baby appear like they have their own condo? Bad question. It's probably been happening a long time. Anywho, everyone knows babies should be dressed in crazy frog outfits and plastic capes with gum in their hair. I worry.

I was chosen! Justice was served!

Phew. I just finished being an officer of the court. Yep. Me and my juris prudences were sworn in yesterday. I served on a jury. I was picked. I was among the select few. I was awesome. The lawyers on both sides totally liked me. I was a chosen one. For a few days, I was very very special and much wanted.

I don't know if I got picked because of my incredible answers in the twenty-page questionnaire or what I said during the day-long voir dire cross examinations, but I suspect it was my awesome clothes. My attire must've been very impressive in the court of law and hall of justice and ceiling of accoustic tiles and secret passages to the judge's chamber. But, yes, to be clear: I answered the attorneys' interrogations with complete calm, introspection, candor, humility, and without food in my mouth ... all in the name of justice. I started every answer with, "Your honor, counsel, my fellow jurors: justice is blind!"

The very important trial involved a widow and General Motors and Ford and some brake manufacturer who apparently believed in its friable asbestos products. We never really heard the detes because the whole thing -- which was expected to last five weeks -- was settled right before our eyes, which was before the opening arguments. It was a very nice although shocking surprise to adjourn and leave our juror lanyards behind, but I was ready despite giving it my all, which included bonding with my fellow jurors, even the one seated next to me who talked too much.

I never felt more part of Multnomah County and our system of justice than during the last few days (with the one possible exception of when I had to defend myself against the crazy woman who sued me  for a cracked driveway). You should've seen me then, boy, defending myself. I was totally a legal eagle.

And, by the way, Multnomah County people are awesome. We represented a tapestry of human goodness -- well spoken, articulate, dignified, not particularly good looking -- ready to fulfill our democratic obligation as a genuine representation of peers.

Man, I love democracy. It's awesome. I'm on a democracy high right now. Don't disturb me. Not sure how long it will last, but I recommend it. I can't even speak right now. I'm overjoyed with a sense of democratic involvement and accomplishment and doing my part to ensure justice is served. Phew. I'm exhausted just thinking about all the justice I served. It was a lot.