Why Golf isn't for Me

Try as I might—and that’s a little bit dishonest because I haven’t really tried that hard—I can’t bring myself to like golf. I realize this puts me at odds with just about every other male of my generation, but who cares?My friends play golf regularly, and about once a year they talk me into joining them for eighteen holes. I always have a good time for about fourteen holes, and then I start thinking, “Damn, another hole?”The best part about golfing is hanging out with my friends. The actual golfing just gets in the way.Sportswriter John Feinstein wrote a book about golf entitled A Good Walk Spoiled, and that’s sort of how I feel about the game. I like green grass, I like being outside, I like going for walks. Why the hell do I have to carry a club and chase a little ball around while I do it?And shouldn’t this game be easier than it is? If I’m just hitting a ball (which isn’t moving), toward a hole (which is also stationary), and I get numerous chances to succeed, then what’s so hard about it?That’s what the inventors of the game figured out after they played it for the first time. So then they came up with the cockamamie rule that whoever takes the fewest hits wins.Golf has to be the only game in which the best player is the person who does the least. You watch Tiger Woods and if he’s having a great day he’ll only hit the ball 65 times. If he’s having a bad day he’ll hit it 80 times. So I’d always root for him to have a bad day so I can see him hit the ball more.By the way, notice that I refer to golf as a game, and not a sport. It’s not a sport. If you can play a game with a cigar in your mouth and sit in a cart and drink beer between turns, it’s not a sport. It is more of a sport than hunting (give the deer guns and teach them to shoot, then it’s a sport!), but it’s still not a sport.I mentioned beer. It’s very common to see people drinking beer on the golf course while playing. This makes perfect sense. There’s a famous quote by Benjamin Franklin that goes something like, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” If the universe must always be in balance, then it’s appropriate to drink beer while playing golf, since golf is proof that God hates us and likes to piss us off.And what’s more maddening than just suddenly losing the ball that you’re using to play the game? And not just losing it, but losing it in a little pond in the middle of the course.That’s all sorts of crazy.One of the funniest things I’ve ever seen happened near a golf course when I was twelve years old. I was in a car with my dad, my friend, and his dad on the way to a Cubs game. We passed a golf course where a bunch of guys on the green, and my dad yelled out the window, “Fore!” Those guys practically collapsed to the ground. I’m sure that’s a violation of some golf etiquette, but it makes me laugh every time I think about it.That brings me to the question of silence.Why is it custom to be quiet when someone’s getting ready to hit the ball? Alex Rodriguez is supposed to hit a baseball traveling 95 miles per hour while some drunk Red Sox fan screams the lyrics to Papa Don’t Preach, but God forbid anyone so much as sneeze when Phil Mickelson is getting ready to hit a ball resting on a tee.And don’t even get me started on the terminology. Par means you did average, so you want to be below par. But if you’re like me, you’re no good, so you need a few extra strokes. Yet someone describing my golfing abilities would say that they’re not up to par, even though I’m above par!A good walk spoiled, indeed.You should subscribe to this blog, don't you think? That way you'll never forget to come back. Forgetting is bad. So why don't you just type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. I'm not going to send you a bunch of junk, and you can ditch me any time you want.

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Dear Guns,

Dear Guns,

First, let me say that I wish I didn’t have to lump you all together. I know there’s nothing you hate more than blanket generalizations. Unfortunately, one bad apple can spoil the whole bunch, and since you all look alike (basically) and perform the same primitive function—to destroy—you all get lumped in together.

Except for you squirt guns, Nerf guns, and 1980s hair band L.A. Guns. Everyone knows you guys are different, so you’re exempt. By the way, thanks for being cool.

Now, back to you no-prefix guns.

I know none of this is your fault, since you don’t kill people. (If there’s one thing I’m “clear” on it’s that people kill people.) However, I’m wondering why—if guns don’t kill people—we send our soldiers off to war with guns. Better to just send them with nothing, right? No sense in having to tote some non-killing object along. It might just get in their way.

Forget that. I don’t want to get argumentative with you right from the get go. Lord knows we’ve had our fair share of disagreements.

So let me take a different approach. Perhaps I can get your opinion on a few things. I know it’s rather unusual to write a letter to a gun, but whenever I try to discuss this with other humans things get heated, and since bad things happen when you get heated, I thought it best to write down my thoughts.

First, what’s your take on this whole Second Amendment issue? I mean, this country’s founders thought that you were so important that they wrote you into the Constitution. Holy crap! That’s impressive.

Are you upset that militias are a thing of the past?

Of course you’re not, because those of us who pet you at night and whisper sweet nothings into your ear blatantly ignore the first few words of that amendment.

Speaking of sweet nothings, I have another question.

What’s your secret? How have you managed to get a segment of the population to worship you? I mean you don’t do anything (like kill). You’re just sort of there as a silent observer, until you make your presence known. I do have to hand it to you. You know how to make an impact.

Okay, if you don’t want to tell me that secret, then maybe you can tell me this. Don’t open relationships bother you? I mean, here you are, the old faithful gun, always there when your human compatriot needs you, and that lovely person who idolizes you so, goes around with other guns. Doesn’t that drive you crazy? I mean are you not gun enough to do the job yourself? Your sole purpose of existence is to cause havoc and destroy. Can’t you handle that? Apparently not, since most people who cradle you have other guns that they cradle.

But, I guess if you’re okay with that, I’m okay with that.

Actually, there’s a lot that I’m not okay with.

I’m not okay that you’re so easy to get. I know you’re useful sometimes, and I’m sure everyone alive will have at least one moment in which they wish they had a gun, but that doesn’t mean that any Tom, Dick or Harry should have you.

I’m not okay that instead of showing actual patriotism--which might require making tough decisions, and doing things like realizing that our founding document was written in a country that’s different from ours in race, gender, sex and culture, and just might need to be revisited—that some people think simply protecting you at all costs makes them patriotic. Again, how’d you get so lucky to be singled out?

That’s all for now, Guns. I have more to say to you, but I feel myself getting worked up, and I want to keep this civil.

I’ll leave you with a warning though. You’re becoming less popular as years pass by. Fewer people have you these days. And since there’s no hope of getting rid of you, our only hope is that people choose not to have you. So your days are numbered.

Finally, something I can thank you for.

Sincerely,

Your Friend

Photography, My Wife's Useful Obession

Much to my chagrin, it appears as though time travel has not been invented, and never will be. If it existed then surely we’d know by now. Some impatient teen from the future would make certain to come back and tell us what the future holds, unless we learned our lesson from Marty McFly, and time travelers have become discreet. I doubt that though.Since time travel doesn’t exist, we’re left with the next best thing: photographs. What are photographs if not time travel? They let us see a certain time and place that no longer exists. (Unless it does exist, and then we’re back to that time travel question.)Writing is somewhat similar, and so is storytelling, but photographs capture time and place in a more concrete form. An elderly veteran can tell us what happened on the beaches of Normandy, and that’s a lot like writing, but the only way to see what happened is in photographs.I’m lucky that for the past fifteen years I’ve had a person by my side who has visually chronicled almost every single important event in my life. My wife.In recent years it’s not unusual for people to chronicle their life in pictures. For the love of god, that’s why Facebook exists. But most people who take pictures, do so casually. They whip out their phone, press a button, and maybe post it online or go back to it three months from now and look at it on a screen smaller than their palm.It’s serious business for my wife though. She’s got one of those fancy cameras with a detachable flash. When she shoots in our house at night anyone passing by might think there’s a lightning storm inside. And she doesn’t so much take pictures as she constructs them. She doesn’t manipulate the scene (except to clear clutter out of the background or foreground, a constant point of contention between us), but somehow when she points the camera and clicks, the results are a thousand times better than when I do it.When talking about pictures there are snapshots and there are photographs. My wife takes photographs.The camera has become so ubiquitous that if we venture on a family outing without it, the kids want to know why she didn’t bring it.That’s not to say that they’re always happy about my wife’s healthy obsession. On most holidays she has created a tradition whereby we take a family picture in a designated location. On the front porch for 4th of July and Halloween, on the couch for Christmas and New Year’s. Because these are holidays, the kids are naturally excited and a bit fidgety, which means we pose for eight, or ten, or thirty pictures before everyone cooperates. Eventually the kids become impatient, but at least they learn that “Just one more,” doesn’t usually mean just one more.Most of the time, they’re picture superstars though. They’ve all had their picture taken so often that they usually know precisely what to do when a camera is pointed in their direction. We’ve been out in public and strangers have commented about how well they pose and smile.My wife loves taking pictures, and we are the beneficiaries. Because even when we don’t feel like posing for “just one more” after spending an afternoon hiking in the Arizona sun, or when we have to smile for the camera before taking a bite out of the first ice cream cone of the year, or we have to hold our present up for the camera before opening the next one, my wife makes us do it.She makes us do it because she knows more keenly than any of us how valuable those pictures are. She knows that once those moments happen, they’re gone. We’ll have memories of them, and if we have the time and the inclination, we might write about them. But if it weren’t for her, we’d never again see them. Our minds might never go back to that particular place, at that particular time. But as soon as we see that picture, we can go back. We can relive the moment, or just remember it.And not losing those moments is the most valuable thing I can think of.

Spinning is the Devil

I took my kids to the park on Sunday afternoon and I almost died.Okay, so maybe I didn’t almost die, but for a few seconds I felt like death. I stumbled, I reached out for something to grab on to and my stomach performed some weird acrobatics.What caused this physiological near-doom? This:In case you’re wondering how such a contraption is used, let me explain. Kids jump up and grab on to the bar, and the thing spins around, using either the child’s own momentum or the strength of some poor, unwitting adult who just wants them to have fun, but then gets suckered into trying this Death Spiral.My kids spun around four or five times, and then when the thing stopped they’d get down, maybe stumble for a step or two, and then run off to the next activity. When I tried it, I spun twice while yelling something like, “I’m going to throw up!” When the wretched thing stopped spinning I stood on unsteady feet, almost paralyzed, ready to collapse at any second.It was horrible. If you want to know what it’s like to chug ten beers and then walk on a bed of marshmallows, just ride this contraption.Of course my kids think this is hilarious. “Dad spun around twice and now he’s going to be sick!” They say these words with such sadist delight, as if seeing dear old dad almost literally brought to his knees by a piece of playground equipment is the funniest thing they’ve ever witnessed.And this isn’t the first time. A few years back my wife was pregnant with our fourth child during our annual amusement park visit. That meant that she couldn’t ride the intense rides, and the boys were too young to go by themselves. I had no choice.So of course, the kids wanted to ride one of those ghastly spider rides. You know the kind: it’s got eight or ten arms that spin around, while also going up and down, all while innocent civilians hold on for dear life in a spinning car at the end of an arm.What sick scoundrels think this is fun?My kids!As luck would have it, at the end of the ride we were suspended in the air as the other riders disembarked, which only prolonged my agony.Somehow I made it off without embarrassing myself any further, but I left a trail of sweat from the ride to the bench. My lovely pregnant wife—who’s all-too-familiar with my intense loathing for spinning—greeted us and said I didn’t look good. Surprise! I felt even worse.I’ve tried to overcome my aversion to spinning, but there’s no hope. There’s something wrong with me. I just can’t spin.Although, actually, I think the problem lies with those who can spin, and not with me. I’m the normal one.I love rollercoasters. A ride that climbs really high, then propels me at a high rate of speed through twists, corkscrews, and upside down? That sounds great! The faster, the better.I see the appeal of going fast and high and upside down. But what’s the appeal of spinning? You don’t even go anywhere. You spin and spin and spin and end up right where you started. (And yes, I know rollercoasters end up where they start, too, but stay with me here!)Go to an amusement park and watch the people getting off a rollercoaster. There’s a spring in their step. The thrill of the ride has released endorphins and they’re feeling great. There aren’t any endorphins from spinning. The only thing that spinning is going to release is your lunch from your stomach.In fact, that feeling I get after spinning is a disease. Vertigo! Why should I go to an amusement park to get a disease? That doesn’t sound like fun.Alfred Hitchcock knew the horrors of spinning, too. He made the film Vertigo, with James Stewart and Kim Novak. Yeah, Hitchcock’s definitely a rollercoaster guy.On the other hand, Walt Disney brought us the Mad Tea Party teacup ride at the Disney theme parks. He’s a sicko! It’s no coincidence that the ride is themed after one of the craziest scenes in any Disney film, the unbirthday party in Alice in Wonderland.I’m sick just thinking about it.Wasn't that well-written and fun to read? You should subscribe to my blog and we'll send you an e-mail every time I write a new one. Type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.

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What I've Learned from HGTV

My wife and I spend some time watching HGTV. We usually watch the same three or four shows. (Different episodes of course!)Since HGTV doesn’t pay me to advertise for them, I won’t mention the show titles. However, as far as I can tell, HGTV only has three types of shows. One is a show where people buy a new house, and another is a show where people fix the house they already have, and the last is a show where people buy a new house and then fix it.(Yes, they’ve actually created an entire TV channel based on such activities. And they have somehow convinced people to watch!)Over the past few years, as a result of hundreds of hours of HGTV viewing, I’ve concluded that there are certain “must-haves” to make a house suitable for human habitation.Let’s begin in the kitchen. It’s basically impossible to make a decent meal unless you have a gourmet kitchen. In case you’re not a faithful HGTV viewer, let me explain what makes a kitchen gourmet.First, it must have granite countertops. If it doesn’t have granite countertops, then you’re morally obligated to rip those suckers out and replace them. Your food will not taste right if you prep it on a laminate countertop. You ignore this warning at your own risk! And if you’re unfortunate enough to have a ceramic tile countertop…well, just be thankful that grocers will even still sell to you.By the way, if you’re a trendy hipster, a butcher block countertop is an acceptable alternative to granite, especially if you don’t mind a little salmonella with your food.Second, your appliances must be stainless steel. Not black, not white. Stainless steel. This is vital. If your appliances are not stainless steel, get ‘em out of there! They’ll probably burn your pizza, rot your meat, or melt your plastic. (None of those are euphemisms.)By the way, invest in some Windex and soft towels, because although the steel might be stainless, it’s a haven for fingerprints.Third, your range must have restaurant-sized burners. If you think a plain old 12,000 BTU residential burner is going to boil that water for your spaghetti, you’ve got another thing coming. Do you think Chef Boyardee uses a residential range?Don’t worry though, at least you’ll have the appropriate range to go with the gargantuan range hood required in a gourmet kitchen. So if you happen to accidentally light a towel on fire when you’re moving that 50,000-BTU-warmed pot of spaghetti from the stovetop, at least you won’t have to worry about the kitchen filling with smoke.That’ll do it for the kitchen, but I’ve learned things about the rest of the house, too.Let’s start with the general design. It must be open concept. The more open, the better. Walls just close everything off. Now that you’ve got that gourmet kitchen, you’ll have to have a dinner party. And if you’re having a dinner party, you’ve got to talk to your guests while you’re cooking.By the way, cleaning is not a part of the home or the garden, apparently, because I’ve never seen any advice on what to do when you’re trying to eat your fancy dinner and all of your guests have a clear view of the pile of pots and pans overflowing from the large farmhouse sink.If you’re one of those weirdos that don’t have dinner parties, it’s still important to have an open concept. You’ll want to be able to keep an eye on the kids while you’re making dinner.By the way, if you can swing it, you might want to add a butler’s pantry to your gourmet kitchen. That way you’ll have somewhere to sneak off to and take a swig of whiskey since your kids can see everything in your new open concept house.A few last pieces of advice:If you’re looking for a new house, don’t be surprised if your realtor only shows you three houses and then makes you choose one. This is perfectly normal, even if one of them is over budget, one is on a busy road, and one means that your spouse will have to commute three hours to work.Also, after you buy that charming hundred-year-old house, the one which you love so much that you’re now going to gut and renovate it, all of those problems that the realtor told you would be “easy fixes” will turn out to be giant pains.Just don’t scrimp on the granite.You should subscribe to this blog, don't you think? That way you'll never forget to come back. Forgetting is bad. So why don't you just type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. I'm not going to send you a bunch of junk, and you can ditch me any time you want.

By the way, if you like what you're reading here, you should like my Facebook page, Brett Baker Writes.

Why I Don't Have a Cell Phone

I don’t have a cell phone.No, I don’t mean that I left it at home, or that it’s not charged, or that I was playing Angry Birds on the toilet and accidentally dropped it in.I mean that I don’t have one. I don’t carry one. If you want to talk to me on the phone you have to call my house. I won’t read your e-mail until I’m in front of a computer.And forget about texting.It’s rather rare in modern times for a person not to have a cell phone. Old people have them, some kids have them, and even people who are technology-averse have them. They’re practically a fact of life.Believe me, I understand the allure.They’re good for emergencies, like when I run out of gas.They’re convenient, like when you’re stuck in a car and you have to know the name of the guy who played Sondra Huxtable’s husband.They’re neat gadgets. What other device can entertain a three-year-old, a seventeen-year-old, and a fifty-year-old?They’re cool. Why else would people race to get the newest model of a phone they bought just twelve months before?I get it.I don’t begrudge anyone a cell phone.So why don’t I have one?It has to do with that snazzy United States map that I see in the commercials for one cell phone company. The map is colored red where cell service is available, and almost the whole map is red. So that’s good, right?I suppose. But it also means that no matter where you are someone can reach you on the phone. So whether you’re driving in your car, hiking on a trail, or lying on a beach, someone can dial your number and the miracle of technology allows that person to connect with you.Most people like that. I don’t.I’m friendly and I like talking to people. But I also like not talking to people. I like to know that there are certain places and times that I’m not going to talk to anyone other than the people I’m with.Is it inconvenient? Yeah, sometimes, in the same way that communication has been inconvenient for all of human history, except for the past fifteen or twenty years.And yes, I am that annoying person that will sometimes ask to use a friend’s phone, or who can’t be reached when making plans.I don’t care though. I’d rather be that annoying person than the annoying person at a restaurant who’s staring at his cell phone while a real live human being is sitting across from him, or the annoying person behind the wheel who watches his phone for five seconds and then the road for three seconds.When I’ve discussed my cell phone-free choice with others, they frequently encourage me to get a phone. “It’s nice to have just in case,” they say. “You can turn it off if you don’t want to talk to anyone,” they argue.Sounds like gateway drug thinking to me!I’m not one who throws around simple bumper sticker sayings, or song lyrics most of the time, but a phrase from the best rock ‘n roll band in the world seems to fit here: “With every tool they lend us/ a loss of independence.”We’re told that cell phones allow us to be connected. We can talk to anyone and read about anything any time we want. We can use it when we want to use it. We can go out and do things. We’re not tied to land lines. We can do whatever we want.But what happens when we use it all the time, when it becomes an extra limb? How many times have we heard someone talk about being lost, or naked, or discombobulated because they left their phone at home?If we rely on a gadget that much, are we free? If we can take a screen anywhere, when do we leave it behind? Are we ever alone?So there’s the short answer. I don’t have a cell phone because sometimes I need to take a break. Sometimes I need to be unreachable. Sometimes I need to be disconnected. Sometimes I need to be more than two feet away from a screen.Sometimes I need to be.Type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.

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What Good is Growing Up?

My wife recently showed me a video in which a little girl cries because she doesn't want her baby brother to grow up. It might be the sweetest thing that I've ever seen, but it also got me thinking.Toys R Us is a kid's paradise. I remember being so excited when I'd get to go to Toys R Us that I could hardly stand it. All those toys and bikes and games and junk-that-no-one-really-needs is like nectar to little kids. They buzz here to look at one toy, and then over there to look at another, and across the aisle to look at another. It's so wonderful it's like...well, it's like a kid in a toy store!So you'd think I'd get excited when a Toys R Us commercial like this came on TV.Well, you'd be wrong.There was no sadder song to a young Brett than that Toys R Us song. "I don't want to grow up/ I'm a Toys R Us kid" followed by, "I don't want to grow up/ 'Cause if I did, I couldn't be a Toys R Us kid."I liked being a kid. I had awesome toys, tons of fun, and I loved my family. When you're a kid, the thought of losing those things can be overwhelming.Why would I want to grow up and get married and get my own house and have to leave my toys and my parents? No thank you!In May 1983 one of my older cousins got married. I had just turned five years old. We went to the wedding and I sat there--impatiently, probably--and watched the ceremony. And at the end, he of course kissed the bride, and the only thing I really remember about that day was thinking, "Gross, who the heck wants to kiss some girl?"And for years after that I worried that some day I'd have to kiss some girl in front of a whole bunch of people.My kids have similar worries. The other night as I was tucking my sons into bed, my older son--he's nine--looked like he was going to cry. I asked him what was wrong and he started to break down and said, "I don't want to get any older. I'm the perfect age. I want to stay like this."I instantly thought back to that Toys R Us song.A year or two ago my seventeen-year-old daughter--a rabid Taylor Swift fan--repeatedly played a song called Never Grow Up. "Oh darling don't you ever grow up/ Just stay this little/ Oh darling, Don't you ever grow up/ Don't you ever grow up/ It could stay this simple." At the time my youngest daughter wasn't quite two years old. Whenever my youngest son, who's four years older than my youngest daughter, heard the song, he'd begin crying."The words are so sad," I remember him saying one time. "And I know she's going to grow up."Little Brett, and the little girl in the video, and my kids all figured out the same thing: childhood is special. Everyone used to be a child, and whether we remember it or not, everyone probably also wished they could always remain a child.Unfortunately, this isn't Neverland, so we have to grow up.Adults frequently wish that they could regain their childhood, but that's best left to the children, because a funny thing happens as we get older. We begin to change, and suddenly kissing some girl doesn't seem like such a bad idea, and eventually getting a place of our own sounds pretty good. Even Toys R Us loses its appeal.And if we're lucky, an even more amazing thing happens. We get to see our children enjoying their childhood.Today a friend of mine told me that he smiles every time he watches his sons play with their toys because he knows they're using their imagination and they've created a little world of their own. Sometimes when I look at my own kids I get choked up just thinking about how much they enjoy each moment, how much they're developing, how much fun they have.So after all those fears of growing older and not being a kid anymore, it turns out that the only thing better than experiencing my own childhood is watching my kids experience their childhood.And that's the good of growing up.Type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.

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Toilet Seats: An Appreciation

Is any household appliance/tool/fixture less appreciated than the toilet seat? No one ever thinks good things about toilet seats. They’re like baseball umpires: not noticed unless they’re not doing their job right.Except for the actual toilet—which we give fancy nicknames (Porcelain God, The Throne)—what item in our household is more disrespected on a consistent basis than the toilet seat?Not only does it have to endure the most disgusting aspects of human life, we ask it to do so while making us comfortable and safe. What other purpose does a toilet seat have except to keep us from falling in? It’s the first responder of household gadgets.Lest you think that I’m wasting my time thinking and writing about toilet seats, picture this. Imagine you’re at an outdoor festival. You tried the world famous spicy nachos from the latest ultra-cool food truck thirty-five minutes ago. Your stomach’s rumbling. There’s a line ten people deep at the bathroom. After waiting your turn and then hustling inside in search of some relief, you open the door to the stall and see a toilet with no seat.If you could buy just one thing at that moment, what would it be?Now think about all the times you’ve used the bathroom at your house during the past year. How much of that would you have cared to do without a toilet seat?Get it?Since we now agree that toilet seats are worthy of our praise, and deserve at least a moment of appreciation, and a smidgen of respect, what else can we say about them?First, what’s the deal with this up-and-down toilet seat battle?“Why can’t men ever remember to put the toilet seat down?”On the list of stereotypically female thoughts, that sentence is just below “I want some chocolate.”All men lift the toilet seat before they pee, and then they forget to put it back down, and some poor woman goes into the bathroom, and either has to touch the disgusting thing to put it back down, or…or what? She doesn’t realize it’s up and falls into the toilet? What exactly are the consequences of a toilet seat left in the up position?I don’t know. And the reason I don’t know is because I don’t lift the toilet seat. Apparently, that puts me in the minority.But wait, don’t start yelling at me about being disrespectful, or ask me how I’d like it if I had to sit in a puddle of pee on the toilet seat.I don’t put the seat up because I don’t pee on the seat. How bad is the average male’s aim that they can’t direct their pee twenty-two inches downward without making a mess? And really, how much more hole real estate are we gaining by lifting the seat? If a man can’t accurately aim a quarter-inch stream of liquid into a ten-inch opening, do you really think he’s going to do any better with a twelve-inch opening?I bet not.And frankly, the thought of anyone having to touch the toilet seat to put it up or down, either in public or at home, is just vile. Thankfully toilet paper takes away some of the eww factor, but still, it’s better for all involved if the only thing touching the toilet seat are cheeks.Which brings me to my final point. Paper toilet seat covers are a human right. There should be a city department devoted solely to ensuring that any company that provides toilets for public use must also provide a plentiful supply of paper toilet seat covers.Without them, we might as well not have public toilet seats at all. From what I hear most women have mastered the art of hovering over public toilets. And I know many men who don’t necessarily hover, but will instead use toilet paper to cover the seat. God forbid any square centimeter of that repugnant, petri dish-like surface with its thin crust of who-knows-what on top touch any part of me.By the way, I think anyone who cleans a toilet should get some sort of reward. Remember Book-It? Pizza Hut would give a free personal pan pizza for kids who read a certain number of books. Why not having something like that for the saintly people who clean toilets?Good idea, huh? Right on target.Just like my aim!By the way, if you like what you're reading here, you should like my Facebook page, Brett Baker Writes.Type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.