By the time my sophomore year arrived in 1995, the idea that any form of discrimination was unacceptable, whether on the basis of race, religion, sexual preference, or disability, was being drilled into students with a very intentional effort. I actually took a class during my junior year called Diversity. And the way my teachers and counselors all approached the issue of racism, you would think that it was a relic, buried far back in our past and now scorned by everyone.

But I would argue that racism is still alive and well in the United States, and the only real difference is that we’ve turned our attention away from black people and focused it on brown ones instead.

It’s amazing to me to see the true colors that Monday’s nationwide immigration reform demonstrations have brought to light in the days that followed. I’m not arguing for or against immigration reform; I’m commenting on the racist statements that have been made by many Americans as a result of the issue becoming a hot media topic. And I’m embarrassed by what an ignorant, racist people we Americans still are.

Two weeks ago, I stood in line at McDonald’s on the 16th Street Mall in downtown Denver. A black customer in front of me informed the cashier that he was short one hash brown. “Esscuse me?” asked the cashier, whose accent told me that English is not her original language. “I AM SHORT ONE HASH BROWN,” he shouted back. She silently added the hash brown to his bag. As he turned, he muttered under his breath loud enough for both me and her to hear, “Go back to f—–g Mexico.”

Before I continue, let me acknowledge that I realize how my soapboxing on this issue is going to sound coming from a guy with the last name Sanchez. And true enough, my family ancestry on my dad’s side is Spanish and Mexican. You probably wouldn’t know it to look at me, as I resemble my white mom’s family with my lighter skin color, lighter brown hair, and green eyes. But I am of Hispanic descent.

However, as a third-generation Coloradoan, I’m also probably more of a native to the area in which I live than the average person I run into on Colorado streets, and I have just as much claim to all the rights and privileges associated with being American as you do, so I’ll continue.

I logged on this morning to read some comments that people were leaving regarding a recent 9News feature covering the topic of immigration reform. I was shocked by some of the hateful statements I read there.

There definitely needs to be a wall put up. It makes me sick to see them drive around in fancy vehicles (tinted windows, designs on them, expensive wheels) while alot of us can’t afford something like that.

So let me get this straight. You’re assuming that any person driving a pimped out low-rider must have hopped the border and been promptly handed a check by Uncle Sam so he could buy a new truck? What an ignorant, racist thing to say.

Too bad they can’t wait until they are here legally to have kids. But someone waves $$$ in front of them and every 9 months there’s another. Some can’t even control the one they have now in the grocery store.

Yes, that’s it. Those damn Mexicans do nothing but sit around and multiply like rabbits because they’re stupid people with nothing better to do than have unprotected sex all day long. Are you kidding me? Who writes this crap? Oh, and I also suppose we’ve never seen white children misbehaving in public, either.

I am sick to my stomach over the way we Americans now regard any person who is not white or black. We’re over the days when black people were second-class citizens (and I’m thankful for that) but now, we’ve turned our racist efforts towards anyone with brown skin. Anyone from South America, Mexico, Puerto Rico is now simply a “Mexican” and anyone from the Middle East, whether that’s Persia, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, or Iraq is simply an “Arab.” And we assume that if they’re brown, they’re here illegally, taking away jobs from the good, white people of America.

I can’t handle it any more. Sure, I’m guilty of perpetuating racist jokes. I’m guilty of thinking negatively on occasion towards someone because of their ethnicity. I’m no saint, and I don’t pretend to be. But eventually, you reach breaking point, and I think I’m at mine. I can’t stand the bigotry and arrogance that we feel over being Americans. I can’t tolerate this asinine superiority complex we seem to feel due to the simple fact that we were born here.

And you know what? I no longer even agree with the idea that all the immigrants should be forced to learn English so they can act and behave like good, white people.

“But this is OUR country,” shout the opposers. “If they want to come here, they have to play by OUR rules.”

You know where I’ve heard that before? On the elementary school playground. “This is OUR playground,” said the sixth graders, “and you little kids will do whatever WE say.” Of course, they had no claim to the playground. It wasn’t theirs. The only basis for their claims was that they had been their longer and they were stronger. They weren’t superior. They were just bullies.

And so are we.

If there’s any people group that should be spitting mad over our hypocrisy, it’s the Indians. (And I’m calling them Indians because the ones I know call themselves Indians, not Native Americans.) Did we come over here and learn their languages? Follow their rules? Adopt their customs? No. We strong-armed them and beat them into submission. Now we’ve packed them up and shipped them off into our little, pre-approved corners of America, and we pretend like our abuse of their people isn’t part of our history, either.

We are an arrogant, proud nation. And we are long overdue for an ass-kicking.

I’ve been taking the bus from Broomfield to Aurora and back almost every work day for the past nine months. For a distance that great, driving during rush hour takes about 70 minutes, and riding the bus takes 90. Even though it takes longer, I’ve found it to be worth the extra twenty minutes each way for two reasons: 1. It’s cheaper, not only on fuel, but also when I calculated the wear and tear that an extra 80 miles a day would put on my car; and 2. It lets me spend that time doing something other than watching the road and flipping the bird.

But on Monday, that all changed.

I didn’t even realize that a strike was taking place when I left for the bus stop. Last I’d heard, the union had recommended taking RTD’s second, much-more-reasonable-than-the-first deal. No one seemed to be predicting that, in the late hours of the night, the workers who showed up to vote would opt to strike instead.

Ten minutes after my bus was supposed to arrive, I really started to get impatient. Four or five minutes is no big deal, but much more than ten, I’ll miss my connecting bus and arrive half an hour later than I should have. I probably would have stood there like an idiot for quite some time if a Call-N-Ride bus hadn’t stopped. “They’re on strike,” shouted the driver through the open door. It sounded like a bad April Fools’ joke two days too late. But it suddenly made sense. She offered to drive me to the Park-N-Ride to catch a different bus. If I’d realized what I had in store, I’d have turned right around and gone back for my car.

Three hours. That’s how long it took me to get to work. Rather than cruising down the highway in a regional express bus, all of which are now out of service, I had to take local routes from Broomfield to Aurora. And it took THREE HOURS to get there… and another three to get home.

It only took one day’s worth of that hassle for my feelings toward the transit workers to change a full 180 degrees. When RTD made their first offer, the one that workers were calling the “nickel and dime” offer, I understood why they were upset. But the second deal was much more reasonable, involving higher raises every three months than most people see in a year. And while Colorado’s not the best-paying state in the nation for bus drivers, we’re certainly not the worst. $18 an hour isn’t fabulous money, but it’s nothing to sneeze at, especially if you ask the $6-an-hour McDonald’s worker, who I would venture to say has to work harder than your typical bus driver.

But they decided that they weren’t happy with their jobs, and that they’d make everyone else suffer with them if that’s what it took to get what they wanted. “RTD is Unfair,” read signs held by strikers marching in front of Civic Center Station. Across the street, a homeless teen held a sign he’d made on cardboard reading, “Go to work — thanks to you, I can’t.” As I observed this exchange two hours into my journey, I couldn’t help but agree with his sentiments. The only people benefitting from this strike were the downtown parking lot owners, many of whom promptly doubled their daily parking fees.

Not only were the local buses on reduced schedules, but the riders were packed into these buses like Polish Jews in a Holocaust cattle car. I really began to fear that people around me would start passing out from the heat. There were three people on every two-person bench, and there was not even enough standing room for the remaining passengers. The contracted bus drivers at the helm offered no sympathy. If you couldn’t push your way through the crowd to get to the exit in less than ten seconds after the bus stopped, the doors closed, and you were stuck on the bus until the next stop.

We keep hearing soundbites on the news from supposed riders saying things like, “Oh, well. It’s an inconvenience but I understand why they’re doing it.” That is complete and utter bullshit to your average rider, and I’d imagine that the news stations have had to search far and wide to find people making these absurd comments for the purpose of offering “fair and balanced” perspectives. The truth is that most of the bus riders are pissed as hell at the transit workers right now, myself included.

And for that matter, isn’t striking kind of an archaic idea anyway? Maybe back in the days of Newsies and railroad builders, such things made more sense. But in today’s America, where someone from another country would happily step in and do your job for half the money, there comes a time when you should just be glad for your eighteen bucks and hour and have a piping hot cup of Shut the Hell Up.

This is one of those times.

The news now reports that RTD and the workers are negotiating a deal that could potentially have buses back on track by Monday. If the drivers have the intelligence I would hope that they must have in order to drive vehicles full of people down busy city streets, they’ll take the deal and get their butts back in the drivers’ seats.

And if they don’t, I really hope RTD says to hell with them and hires a whole new fleet.

Body Worlds 2, the “amazing display of real human bodies,” is now in full-swing at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. The concept is incredible: real cadavers, preserved with a patented plastination technique that allows up close and personal inspection by the general public.

This is anatomy class like you’ve never experienced. Imagine a dissection lab, with convenient explanation placards and optional audio guides, and without the nasty smell of formaldehyde. It takes all of five minutes to get over the creepy/morbid factor, and discomfort quickly gives way to fascination as you view the amazing specimens on display. And in the event that you become momentarily uncomfortable, sharing a quick Hannibal Lecter joke with the person nearest to you is enough to take off the edge.

Most of the specimens are skinned, so it’s not like looking at a morgue cadaver. Rather, they’ve all typically had selective organ and tissue removal so that you can see a specific aspect of the body, such as the muscular system, the digestive system, the circulatory system, and so on. Many of the items on display are individual organs. A fascinating example is a comparison of hearts, showing one that is healthy and one that has experienced an infarct (that would be a heart attack). There’s also a shocking comparison of lungs: a healthy lung (relatively white), a smoker’s lung (with obvious graying from tar), and a coal miner’s lung (solid black — they don’t call it Black Lung for nothin’).

Be warned ahead of time, if such things disturb you, that most of the specimens are male, and they are left anatomically intact. That means there are still penises and testes, sans scrotum, in full view, and many of the women still have nipples and vaginas. If little Bobby and Susie haven’t had the talk about boy parts and girl parts, this could make for an awkward moment. There are also plastintated fetuses, and a plastinated pregnant woman with plastinated fetus still in utero.

Before you jump on board with the people who have decried Body Worlds as being an “offense against humanity,” take a couple of quick points into consideration.

First, all of the specimens on display were donated to science for this type of purpose. These people knowingly and willingly consented for their bodies to be used for scientific and educational purposes, so there’s been no injustice by plastinating these bodies instead of burying or cremating them. (Still, I had to wonder about a specimen posed like an upside-down skateboarder. One of the items highlighted in the audio guide was how, due to the crouching position, this specimen offered an extraordinary view of the anal sphincter. Even if I donated my body to science, I’m not sure I would want millions of people inspecting my asshole for all eternity.)

Second, all of the bodies, especially the fetuses, were donated after they had died by natural means. These are not aborted babies, so relax. Even the pregnant woman with fetus knew she had a disease that would likely kill her and her baby before the baby was old enough to be saved outside the womb, so she donated both her body and that of the unborn child in the event that she and the baby didn’t survive. They didn’t, hence the display.

A few other things to note:

There’s a touch-and-feel section where you can hold a plastinated lung, brain, and liver. This is, of course, completely optional. But if you’re squeamish, this warning is to keep you from being suddenly shocked by the thought of holding organs that used to function inside someone else’s body.

Also, there are EXTREMELY LARGE CROWDS that are expected to continue throughout the duration of this exhibit. (It’s not going to wind down in a few weeks — just look at California. It ran for six weeks to sold out crowds, then opened for an extended six week run and was still sold out on the last day.) The line just to buy tickets is typically 30-45 minutes, and the tickets are for timed entry. This means that if you buy your ticket at 1:00, your admission to the exhibit may not be until 5:00. There’s plenty of other stuff at the museum to see while you wait for your turn to hop in line, but especially on weekends, this show frequently sells out for the rest of the day by 2:00 in the afternoon.

A much better option is to buy your tickets online at www.dmns.org. If you buy in advance, there is a $2-per-ticket convenience charge, but it’s well worth the money. You pick your date and time, and then you can simply show up five minutes prior, go to the will-call kiosk, and swipe the credit card you used to buy tickets along with your confirmation number. Your tickets will automatically print, and you can get right in line to view the exhibit.

Ticket prices are $20 during daytime hours (this includes admission to the exhibit and the museum — there are no exhibit-only tickets for sale while the museum is open). Afterhours tickets to the exhibit only are $15. If you have a membership (an excellent investment, as you receive free museum admission for one year), tickets to Body Worlds 2 are $10 any time.

Tvert, of course, is the executive director of SAFER (Safer Alternative for Enjoyable Recreation). The group sponsored the recently-passed bill legalizing marijuana possession, up to an ounce, in Denver. Yesterday, his group kicked off their campaign to pass similar legislation on a statewide level. Assembled on the steps of the Capitol building, they began collecting the 68,000 signatures needed to put the initiative on the ballot.

And on the steps of the Capitol building, Mason and company confirmed what I’ve suspected all along: they’re willing to do or say absolutely anything, as long as it advances their agenda.

“Simply signing this petition to put it on the ballot means you think it should be debated,” Tvert said in one of this morning’s local dailies. He made similar promises to bystanders, assuring them that a signature did not necessarily imply advocation of legalizing pot. The truth of the statement is questionable, as the petition will become part of public record and is generally viewed as the first wave of people willing to say that they think the initiative should be passed. Tvert’s claim references the fact that, once the petition is signed by the requisite number of residents, the initiative would still have to be approved by voters before it would become law.

A year ago, it might have seemed pointless to even present voters with such a notion. The line seemed to be drawn at medical marijuana. But legalizing pot just for the sake of recreational use? It would have been (and was) scorned mercilessly.

Until it passed.

All of a sudden, the tide appeared to be turning. It was a narrow margin, but the initiative passed and Denver voters legalized the possession of a small amount of marijuana. Lawmakers were quick to label it a fluke and to say that it “slipped under the radar.” (This, too, is a highly questionable statement, as it’s hard to imagine voters accidentally voting to legalize pot.) But the effect of the initiative was minimal, as on the first day after the vote, police continued to apprehend those found with now-legal dope. Prosecutions continued, citing state law, which supersedes local law and still deems marijuana an illegal substance.

That’s why Mason and pals are taking it to the next level. If passed statewide, possession would still be a federal crime, but apprehension would become a matter for the FBI. And the common speculation, with which I am likely to agree, is that the Feds have more important items on their to-do lists than nailing dope smokers.

So what’s the reason for my apparent hostility toward Mason and his SAFER crew? I’m not particularly opposed to marijuana. I smoked a fair amount myself in my late teens, and though I don’t run with a pot-smoking crowd these days, I don’t begrudge someone else who wants to sit on his back porch with joint in hand.

My beef with the reefer has to do with the tactics being used to pass the legislation. The organization’s acronym says it all: SAFER. That’s their allegation, that pot is safer than alcohol. And while this may be supportable by evidence like impairment studies and automobile accident statistics, I take issue with statements like, “By banning pot, you’re FORCING people to use ALCOHOL for recreation, even though alcohol’s more dangerous.”

That’s ridiculous.

It would be like me saying that because Uzis are so expensive, Dick Cheney was FORCED to use a RIFLE which had much worse accuracy and may have led to the accidental shooting of his hunting companion.

That’s so stupid, even Dubya might be forced to admit it.

Nobody’s forcing anyone to use alcohol. Like any potentially dangerous substance, consumption is at the user’s own discretion. It’s a laughable assertion that without the legalization of pot, I will be forced to sit around and drink cheap beer because there is nothing worthwhile to do for entertainment or recreation beyond altering my mind. That’s the stupidest argument I’ve ever heard.

Is alcohol dangerous? Of course. Is it more dangerous than pot? Probably. But does that mean pot should be legal? I don’t think so, and I’m betting that Denver voters don’t, either. The real question we should be asking is whether or not alcohol should be legal, but that question will never be taken seriously. We already like alcohol, and it’s already been legalized. It’s much easier to make something legal than to make it illegal, which is why we should think twice before we rush to legalize pot. What if legalizing pot ends up making things worse, despite the assurances of SAFER that the world would be a better place to live? What if we later want to change our minds? We’ll have a hell of a time getting it banned again, that’s what will happen.

Is it a double-standard? Yes. But the simple fact of the matter is that legalizing pot isn’t going to make the world a safer place. It’s just going to give people one more thing to abuse. And yes, there are plenty of pot-smokers out there already, but if it becomes legal, there will certainly be more.

So I take issue with Tvert’s claim that marijuana is safer, because “safer” doesn’t mean “safe.” And using this logic as his justification for the initiative doesn’t hold bong water.

What pushed me over the edge was the newspaper’s assertion that SAFER actually took advantage of a nearby, Capitol-step party the Democrats were having nearby to celebrate the gubernatorial candidacy of Bill Ritter. People were confused, thinking that Mason’s party was Bill’s party, and Mason did nothing to clarify the mix-up. He just pressed everyone for signatures and gave the line, “it just means you think it should be debated.”

And that, in my mind, speaks volumes about the integrity of the people trying to pass the Pot Bill. If you have to cheat and sneak around to get your legislation passed, your legislation’s probably not worth passing.

We already saw this a couple of years ago when PETA, along with their celebrated, 15-year old advocate Heather Herman, tried to convince us that circus animals were mistreated so badly that we should ban circuses from Denver. What happened when we found out that the video clips of elephant beatings weren’t even filmed in America? That circuses in the States are regulated by the Department of Wildlife? That PETA doesn’t love animals, they just hate humans? We got pissed off, that’s what happened. And we voted that initiative down by an 80-20 margin.

If Mason and pals want us to take them seriously, they should quit insulting our intelligence. They should say that they want our signatures because they want to smoke pot, they like smoking pot, and they would rather grow their own than buy it off of guys who smell like piss in dark alleyways. That’s the end of it. If they want to drop the “safer” crap and call a spade a spade, I’ll offer my signature.

But don’t treat us like we’re stupid.

Or stoned.

Customer: “I’ll have a tall coffee of the day.”
Barista: (with thick accent) “Hokay, and you name?”
Customer: “Doug.”
Barista: (confused) “Dog?”
Customer: (annoyed) “Doug!”
Barista: “Dog?”
Customer: “Oh, forget it. I’ll go to the Starbucks across the street.”

Now, before you toss me into the same category as pimply, teenage, “I’d rather watch Star Trek than go on a date,” video-gaming geeks, I need to interrupt this would-be narrative for some very important clarification. Most modern video games are as familiar to me as MySpace would be to your average senior citizen. I don’t get them.

In my narrow, 25-year old mind, names like Halo and Grand Theft Auto mean absolutely nothing. Real video games have names like Frogger, Ms. Pac-Man, and Mario 3. Three-dimensional scenery is useless. Rather, your character should always run in a straight line from the left side of the screen to the right, there should be exactly eight worlds with four levels each, and at the end of each world, you should discover that Our Princess is in Another Castle.

But maybe six months ago, I played a game on someone else’s Xbox called Burnout 3. It’s a racing game, kind of like Pole Position, except that it has no steering wheel or gear shifts, and is therefore not quite as cool. As a substitute, though, and for an at-home version, Burnout 3 appeared to be reasonably acceptable. We played for a couple of hours, and the thought crossed my mind that maybe I wouldn’t mind having this particular game in my collection.

After failing to find a version of Burnout 3 playable on the original Nintendo Entertainment System, I realized that playing this game at home would require the purchase of an Xbox, and the notion abruptly ended.

Or so I thought.

But yesterday, finding myself face-to-face with a large sign at the mall’s video game store proudly announcing that they had used Xboxes in guaranteed condition for just $129, I realized that this case wasn’t closed just yet. Furthermore, a used copy of Burnout 3 was a mere $18. Coming in at a total of under $150, I suddenly decided that perhaps I would own the Home Game Version after all. After a consultation with my wife (who — get this — said something along the lines of “Sure, honey. You’ve been working hard for our family lately and I think you deserve it.” Pause for a moment to consider the glorious miracle of that sentence. Honestly, you could search the whole world over and never find a wife like this. I am now the envy of husbands everywhere.) I proudly marched to the sales counter, Visa card in hand, and announced that I would like a used Xbox and Burnout 3.

Now, I don’t know what effect the words “we don’t have any” typically have on you, but for me in this particular instance, it was enough to wipe the proud smile off my face in a hurry.

“We don’t have any,” said the clerk.

“But… but…” I spluttered, pointing lamely at the rows of boxes containing used Xboxes encircling the store.

“Those are empty boxes for display purposes. We keep the actual units in the back. Except we don’t have any.”

“Well, how much is a new one?” I asked, my visions of pure, racing satisfaction quickly slipping away from me.

“$150.”

Okay, quick mental assessment. Twenty bucks more … not quite the bargain I was hoping for, but in the interest of avoiding disappointment now that my mind had already been made up, a forgivable expenditure.

“All right, I’ll take one of those,” I said, hoping to complete the transaction before I could change my mind.

“We don’t have any of those, either.”

A sudden silence came over the room, followed by customers turning to look for the source of the loud sound as my jaw audibly hit the counter.

The sole video game store in a nice mall on an average winter weekend was completely out of Xboxes, both new and used? How could such a thing have ever been allowed to happen? It would be like a McDonald’s running out of hamburgers. It would be like the sun setting in the east. It was absolutely unthinkable.

I was so flabbergasted that I couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, I just frantically waved my Visa card in the sales clerk’s face, as if to say, “But, you moron, don’t you understand? My money is right here! I’m not some broke, twelve-year old customer loitering in your store with no intention of actually buying anything. I have money, and I’m trying to give it to you! Find me an Xbox! Now!”

Unfortunately, my money was no good there — in the bad sense of that expression.

I received a sudden glimmer of hope from the sales clerk, who promptly squashed it a moment later. “The only Xbox we have in stock is a special edition that comes bundled with a different game.”

“How much is that?”

“$180.”

Dang. Almost forty percent more, all for an extra game that didn’t interest me in the slightest. An extra twenty bucks is one thing, but an extra fifty is another.

Then, a new thought occurred. This may have been the only video game store in the mall, but there were other electronics stores. Surely, someone else sells Xboxes. Not used, perhaps, but I should be able to find the regular, new one for $150. I bought the used copy of Burnout 3, confident that I’d find a plain Xbox somewhere else, and set out into the rest of the mall to find it.

Three stores later, it looked like the entire Colorado Mills Mall was facing the same shortage. The only available systems came bundled with a game, and retailed for $180. I even looked at Target — the non-trashy person’s Wal-Mart — and still came up empty-handed.

By this time, the kids were tired, the baby was hungry, and my wife was not quite so keen on my owning an Xbox as she had been two hours before. But this quest of mine had taken a rather manic turn, and I was determined to go home with an Xbox.

Finally, someone at Best Buy was able to set the record straight. After Christmas, with the release of the Xbox 360, the gaming community expected that the cost of regular Xboxes would come down. Microsoft’s answer? Stop selling regular Xboxes. Start bundling games with Xboxes. Increase the price by thirty dollars.

Slick, huh?

Realizing that a regular Xbox was likely nowhere to be found, I gave in and shelled out the $180 at Best Buy, finally heading home with my new Xbox, Burnout 3, and the other, superfluous game.

It was depressing that such a purchase should be overshadowed by frustration, disappointment, and the feeling of being squeezed as a customer for extra cash. But rather than write more, I’ll allow you to insert your own anti-Microsoft rant here, while I save the rest of my energy for racing tonight.

After all, at a total cost of over $200, I can’t help but realize that, in the arcade of my childhood, that much money would have bought over 800 games of Pole Position.

“Hello, howdy-do, how are ya? Come on board! Glad afternoon to ya, and welcome aboard RTD!” It was entirely too long of a salutation, and the whole thing was directed toward me personally. My first inclination was to turn around and march right back into Market Street Station where the panhandlers suddenly seemed a little less intimidating. It’s one thing for a crazy person to ask for spare change and entirely another for him to drive a bus on which I am a passenger. Normal people are just not that cheery, period.

I resisted the urge to panic and took a seat to further assess the driver. Despite the long greeting, he hadn’t offered his name and I wasn’t about to ask. I decided that he looked like a Roger. Roger was either driving a bus for the first time or having some serious issues from being denied the opportunity to be an airline pilot. This became evident when he started speaking over the bus’s loudspeaker. Other drivers — normal drivers — use the loudspeaker as little as possible, announcing the next stop in a voice muffled enough to be completely unintelligible. But not Roger.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he boomed. What is this, I wondered, the Ringling Brothers? “This is the L bus, which stands for Longmont. We’ll be departing Market Street Station at 6:15 and making a quick stop at Union Street Station.” I experienced a moment of confusion. Why was Roger telling me this? Would I be expected to help steer the bus? “After that, our next stop will be Westminster. Then, it’s off to Broomfield, then Niwot, and we finally arrive in the lovely town of Longmont.” Roger was clearly one of those little boys who liked to play Cruise Ship Entertainment Host instead of kickball when he was a little boy.

Something about Roger brought to my mind the conductor of the train ride at the Denver Zoo. You know the guy — the one who wears the traditional oil-stained train conductor’s uniform, has gray hair and a big gray mustache, and has been driving the train in a circular course for decades. That guy’s another weirdo, but at least his vehicle is a miniature train, so it kind of makes sense. The fact that Roger was driving a large bus on a public highway was much more troubling.

When the bus entered the highway, I learned that Roger likes to speak to other cars while he drives. It’s one thing to do this in your personal car while stuck in rush hour, but quite another when there’s an audience of 40 or 50 passengers. And he wasn’t muttering about their poor driving habits; he was speculating where they were going and what they were doing that evening. I had now confirmed in my mind that Roger was clearly delusional, but it was now too late to do anything about it.

As Roger pulled the bus into the Westminster Park-N-Ride, he again reached for his microphone. “Okey-dokey, folks, this is the Westminster Park-N-Ride. Please make sure you grab your cell phones, iPods, laptops, backpacks, purses, or any other items you carried aboard. Be sure to watch your step, and thanks for choosing RTD, thus helping the world’s oil situation.” Nice, a little political-slash-environmental commentary thrown in for good measure. Ironically enough, no one boarded or departed the bus.

Mine was the following stop. I thought that surely Roger wouldn’t repeat his little speech at every stop, but I was clearly mistaken. Despite the fact that we all had obviously heard him the first time, Roger repeated his departure message almost verbatim. I was the only person leaving the bus. “Okay, now, you have yourself a great night. Come back and see us again real soon,” Roger instructed me in the tone used by waitresses at chicken restaurants. I exited, glad to be leaving the bus and equally glad that Roger’s driving wasn’t as spooky as his demeanor.

I allowed myself to wonder, as I walked home from the bus stop, if I have become so cynical that I can’t simply appreciate an overly-friendly person. I think it all comes down to the role the person is expected to play. I don’t mind when passengers on the bus are perky and chipper like Roger, nor do I mind when flight attendants or tour guides employ this type of attentive friendliness.

But driving is serious business, especially driving a bus. I want my driver to be quiet, alert, and focused on the task at hand, which is getting me safely and on time from one place to another. He can be surly, he can ignore me, and he can give me a dirty look as long as he knows how to safely operate a bus. But being happy-go-lucky and carefree just makes me suspect he’s too casual about his driving habits.

And on a day like today, when a bus tips over and shuts down northbound Highway 36, this is reaffirmed in my mind to the point of absolute certainty.

For years, it has baffled me that there would be such a market for breast enlargements. And if my bulk email folder is any indication, there is now an equally large market of men desperate to enhance their reproductive organs as well. I don’t understand why people feel that they need to measure up to the physical standards of others.

An article in today’s Denver Post, however, has me rethinking my philosophy. Until today, I’ve never thought that I was dissatisfied with the way I look. I’m a textbook case of overconfidence — not in my appearance, but in my sense of humor and outgoing personality, both of which triumph over good looks any day of the week. And I’ve never thought I was ugly, just average. Not good-looking, either, but average.

The article spotlights Dr. John Millard, who specializes in creating six-pack abs — not with implants, but with fat. And not injected fat, but the fat that’s already there. It’s selective liposuction. He ultrasounds and sucks out most of the fat, but leaves behind a little bit of fat in carefully selected areas, giving the impression of a healthy, trim-looking six pack and equally fit pectorals to match.

For guys like me, with severe allergies to sit-ups and a family history of Dickiedo disease (where your belly sticks out further than your dickie do), the only six packs we’ve previously been able to purchase are Bud Lite and Coors. I’m not fat, mind you, but I do have the early stages of a small gut going on due to the fact that I like eating the occasional cheeseburger, Twinkie, or bag of Double-Stuff Oreos. And, as the article acknowledges, even with daily crunches and a change in diet, without the genetic predisposition toward Ripped-Like-Jesusness, it’s never going to be a possibility for me.

Until now. As I read the article, I was shocked at how quickly my disdain for plastic surgery turned into “I wonder what I would look like if I had that operation done?” There wouldn’t be a huge purpose, either, other than to look good for my wife and to feel more self-confident in swim trunks. But that didn’t stop the allure.

I was great until I got to the $15,000 price tag. That’s where the whole thing fell apart, because there are too many other things that I’d rather have for fifteen thousand bucks: A more dependable family vehicle. A recording studio crew. A membership to Disneyland’s Club 33.

I did note, however, towards the end of the article, the author revealed that Dr. Millard is also experimenting with arm and leg sculpting. Maybe there’s a sign-up for volunteers. Which would be a classic case of Americans’ inability to follow through: Sculpted arms, sculpted thighs, and Dickiedo.