My dad came down the mountain -- Big Bear -- holding one commandment: Thou shalt go fishing. Dad is an old fisherman and I ... well, I carry Purell.

My dad thought I was a natural when he caught me, age three, plucking fish from the aquarium. He freaked out like I was eating them, when it was strictly catch and release.

Why, anyway, would I hunt for something that costs a dollar at McDonald's? And while we're asking questions, isn't "Filet-O-Fish" a little ambiguous? Filet o' what kind of fish? Goldfish? Gefilte fish?

McDonalds: Ask us no questions; we'll tell you no lies.(tm)

At least my dad didn't charter a boat. Fish aren't the brightest of God's creatures, yet we come on with radar, sonar, migration charts. Some fish just lose their nerve and jump in the boat as you pass.

No, my dad and I would squat on the jetty, old school, like Asians who refuse to give up chopsticks despite the superior fork-and-knife technology.

The jacksmelt, says my dad, is so dumb that you can catch one without any bait. They just like to swallow glittery hooks like many voters.

My dad asked if I had a license, so I pulled out my I.D.

He shook his head at the heavens: "Is this really my son?"

Evidently, you need a license to fish and you can only take home so many (if only we applied the same rules to childbearing).

My dad brought a bucket of live, highly attentive anchovies, and I realized, watching them swim their last laps, that you don't stand much chance as a fisherman when you feel sorry for the bait. So it goes.

I'm not a vegetarian, per se, but I require at minimum that my food be murdered in a remote location. Left to my own, I'd stand on the shore waiting for the fish to die of natural causes, preferably before dinner.

Dad anchovied my line, then started his own, not once looking down. By all accounts, he was a master baiter.

He let me cast my own line, damn the torpedoes, and I'm pleased to report no blood loss. I aimed for a seagull, who was happy to guzzle my bait and make my dad shake his head at the heavens.

My primary job was to report on nibbles, which happen every time the water moves.

"We got one! Wait, no. Just a wave. It's a nibble! No, no. Coffee shakes."

My dad stopped looking over. I was the boy who cried nibble.

Fishing isn't so much about fishing as it is about escaping TV. My dad and I talked about all kinds of things that don't come up during commercials. He recalled, for instance, the time I poured Ex-Lax in the salad dressing and how he considered releasing me back to the wild.

And just when I had forgotten about nibbles, my dad's pole doubled over and he woke up like a fireman, shoving me the net as he reeled, reeled, reeled. The fish, unsure of our intentions or religious beliefs, struggled like a madman to no avail.

Moments later, a slimy silver body flickered in the sun. I hooted and cheered like we had captured Nessie. My dad plunked the rockfish into my net, where the little guy thrashed for his life...

"You will have my dead body, but not my obedience."

Dad and I admired the trophy and then, without snapping a photo or calling the paper, released him back to the wild. Even now the poor guy is spinning yarns of his abduction...

"There was a blinding light, and I think they planted a tracking device ..."

Without looking down, my dad recast his line and again squatted in the rocks, this time with a secret smile. Old Man and the Sea.

I myself didn't actually, officially catch any fish, but I did avoid falling into the ocean, which is more than anyone expected. My dad has since returned to Big Bear, where he continues to fish not two blocks from McDonalds.

The older I get, the more I believe that we should respect the elderly. But recently, after the column about questions for Saint Peter, my elders wondered aloud whether I or Johnny Cochrane would make it as far as the Pearly Gates.

They suggested indeed that our accommodations might be a little hotter. Think Arizona in August.

It happens that I've been writing another list: "Stuff I Learned While I Was Alive." Perhaps they'll run it in hell's newspaper, The Devil's Advocate, which presently contains nothing but "Family Circus."

Satan doesn't take the paper anyway. His Cabinet is too busy strategizing the corruption of human souls...

"Sir, we're just not reaching them. Only a small percentage of people own vinyl records, and hardly anyone thinks to play them backwards."

The truth is that nobody can say what hell is like. All we know is that it will somehow involve the Nextel phone chirp.

Incidentally, it was "The Devil's Dictionary," a collection of smart-aleck-isms by Ambrose Bierce, that started me down this primrose path. I wrote my first one on the back cover:

"Altruism is when our selfishness benefits someone else."

So it goes.


Fallen souls of the vinyl record, I give ye "Stuff I Learned While I Was Alive"...

What's good for you depends largely on who sponsors the study.

No man is an island, but many are that large.

A concert is where they ruin all the songs you enjoyed on the radio.

The upside to dying is that you don't have to go to work the next day.

There is no "I" in team, but there is a "me."

Don't judge a book by its cover; judge it by the movie.

When you get mad, take ten deep breaths. If you're still mad, it's okay to hurt someone.

The world is divided into haves and have-nots: Those who have a sense of humor and those who do not.

Don't count your chickens before they're are all in one basket.

Judging by our political decisions, hindsight is 50-50.

"Royal gala"..."Rome beauty"..."red delicious"...apples are always looking for that edge.

The rat race is for the birds.

Public television is commercial-free during those brief intervals when they're not asking for money.

No means no. So does pepper spray.

You just think it's all in your head.

The last thing you want your relationship to become is serious.

The traffic is always lighter in someone else's lane.

The best part about gay men is that they're not always trying to prove that they're not gay.

Let no one belittle your integrity without paying you good money to do so.

What we could really use is freedom from the press.

Imagine how many people would get hit by trains if the trains didn't stay on those tracks.

Diarrhea also happens.

Times used to fly; now it's afraid of terrorists.

The average American attention span is...

It takes a lot of money to run for President. Over three bucks a gallon.

Swingers cheat on each other together.

Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for one day. Teach a man to fish, and he'll stink for the rest of his life.

If you go the wrong direction, everything is overseas.

God is whatever came before the Big Bang.

Everyone has that uncle you just can't trust. Mine is Uncle Sam.

Live each day like it's your second to last. That way you can fall sleep at night.

The real world is a figment of our lack of imagination.

If it weren't for the Second, maybe we wouldn't have to plea the Fifth.

Men are hit by lightning four times more often than are women, proof that God is improving Her aim.

Remember that you are totally unique just like everyone else.


And Johnny Cochrane will appeal to The Devil's Advocate, outraged that I would mention the Second as if his client could even spell "the Second," and I will retract nothing because that is how I saw it and if Johnny doesn't like it he can just go to ... well, he can just stay where he is.

A time comes when every cubicle hand looks around and says, "This is not how I planned it."

Your neighbor has been clearing his throat non-stop since November. The copy girl is bringing more memos Effective Immediately. Your manager is already at your desk, but you can't hear him over the smell of his breath.

You catch eyes with a temp across the street. This has happened before. Eventually, the pain grows too rich and you both draw the shades.

Your smart friends are already living the American Dream: workers' comp lawsuit. They won't return to work until they are good and sick of Oprah Winfrey. Their children are also at home, having torched their lemonade stands for insurance money.

When your career counselor asked about your future, there was no talk of touch points or peer reviews. You couldn't imagine using the word "task" as a verb. Yet here you are in a climate-controlled, OSHA-compliant cubicle, 25-to-life for not being rich. So it goes.

Fortunately, there are things you can do to ease the pain. Please find here an itemized list Effective Immediately...

• Wherever you go, walk fast and carry a document. No one ever questions the speed walker. You could be delivering Valentine's cards and still get a raise...
  
  "That Barbara sure is diligent. How much are we paying her?"
  
  
  
• Log your sick-day excuses to avoid this sort of muddle...
  
  YOU: "I won't be in this week because my brother, sadly, has passed away."
  
  GORGON SECRETARY: "Your brother died last year. June seventh."
  
  Awkward silence.
  
  YOU: "Oh. Then I've just got the flu."
  
  
  
• Establish early on that you married into a Jewish family and will be observing extra holidays, which you would specify if you could only pronounce them. Be ready with self-deprecating Jewish humor. "Yeah, life is like a box of chocolates -- my side nuts, their side Jews. Ha ha ha ha."
  
  
  
• Spend at least one vacation day at your desk to let others know that you can't help them. Bring a novel and a coconut drink; this is your day. If anyone gets testy, snap a photo for your scrapbook.
  
  
  
• You know from the Keyboard Shortcut Meeting that Alt + Tab switches program screens. Exercise your Alt-Tab fingers regularly so that you're quick on the draw should someone walk in and find you playing solitaire. Alt-tab, alt-tab, alt-tab. Practice makes the master.
  
  
  
• When you are ready to quit -- and it shouldn't be long -- give three weeks notice. This allows extra time for surfing the Internet and talking about life on The Outside.
  

Studies have shown that personality loss comes from long-term exposure to fluorescent lighting. Well, that and holding your gas. Your only defense is to get a little zany...

Top Ten Ways to Salvage Your Personality from Fluorescent Lighting


10. Wear a sign that reads, "Out of Service. IT called."

9. On Casual Friday, bring your teddy bear.

8. Imagine the others in a naked barroom brawl.

7. Create a nameplate that reads, "Very Important Peon."

6. Whenever someone hands you work, ask if they want fries with that.

5. Slip and fall. File a lawsuit. Watch Oprah Winfrey.

4. Every time your neighbor clears his throat, clear yours twice.

3. When management asks you to assume a new role, tell them that you never assume.

2. Arrange a Ditch Day for seniors.

1. During reviews, say that you have taken up meditation and that your career goal is now to swallow the universe. Remind them that you will still be observing Jewish holidays.


Meanwhile, back in the boredroom, managers are "connecting" over pastries and Great Questions.

"That's a great question. Let's schedule a meeting to discuss our meeting schedule."

Management can spend weeks deciding a temperature for the thermostat. We call them chairpersons for good reason: They're always sitting around. Imagine how much work they could get done if they weren't always talking about how much work they could get done.

Today management is discussing the Corporate Catheter, which will reduce time lost to potty breaks. Coupled with the Corporate I.V., there should be no reason for anyone to stand up other than to attend a meeting.

Maybe there's a book in this whole thing: "Just Because We've Got A/C Doesn't Mean It Ain't Hell" ... "Working Hard or Hardly Working?: Why We Want to Vaporize Our Coworkers."

All I'm saying is that the next time someone uses "task" as a verb, that should be grounds for a workers comp lawsuit.

I just ate pumpkin pie. Specifically, a pumpkin pie. How did we get dessert out of something so slimy and foul-tasting? Who stuck his hand into the pumpkin and thought, "Yes. Definitely. Pie."

Welcome to the wonderful world of sugar.

I'm a sugaholic. It starts at breakfast with Cookie Crisp, part of a nutritious breakfast when served with other, natural food. I also eat Dolly Madison donuts, which double as cereal if you pour milk over them.

How come we eat donuts for breakfast but not, say, cheesecake or cotton candy? I'll start the day with anything up to and including Toxic Waste-e-o's. Frosted.

The addiction began in grade school, when I discovered Fun Dips -- packets of sugar you eat with a spoon MADE OF CANDY. I bought Dinosour Eggs from the ice cream man, who circled the block like a pusher. I would chase him down the street behind that sign reading, "Slow Children." Maybe we wouldn't be slow if it weren't for all that junk food.

The ice cream man also peddled "fun-sized" candy bars, but if you ask me, fun size should be when you need a ladder to reach the top.

Speaking of which, my mom used to place the cookie jar on top of our fridge, where I couldn't reach it. I could, however, open the hallway closet and grab the step ladder. I still remember when, in a frenzy, I knocked the cookies off the fridge.

The porcelain shattered in slow motion, and a strange calm washed over me... It had been a good life, one filled with passion and joy, tender bonds, and finally one irretrievable error.

My mom decided against murder, and by high school I was snorting Pixie Sticks. One day I'll end up in a diabetic coma and the doctor, having exhausted the options, will end my life by shouting, "Hey! Kool-Aid!"

I do eat normal-people food, but only as a pretext for dessert. And for the record, no, I cannot "just eat fruit." Fruit only angers my need for chocolate. So it goes.

Waist management has become an issue. It's hard to run the treadmill with fudge on your breath; your brain doesn't know what to make of it. Thank God for the dangling carrot cake.

In my refrigerator is a mirror strategically positioned to scare me straight. Would you believe that it's working? Now, without even thinking about it, I close my eyes and grope my way to the pudding snacks.

Sometimes the cupcakes call me from the pantry:

"Jaaaason...Cream fiiiillling, Jason..."

One year I quit cold turkey, because I have no problem with turkey; but then I tried to quit sugar, and by Day Two I was in the bakery thinking, What is sugar anyway? Doesn't everything, including broccoli, eventually break down into sugar?

Before long I was back to pumpkin pie on the basis that pumpkins grow out of the ground, and what could be more natural?

"You got your peanut butter in my chocolate!"

"All right! Health food!"

Dolly Madison makes purple pie sludge. Purple is a fruit, right?

Last month I went the other direction and plied myself with sweets, hoping to find bottom. Thirty-five Almond Joys later, I could only pronounce the word "meh." Which echoed in the toilet bowl. Sometimes you feel like a nut.

I don't care anymore. I would rather be a happy DayGlo marker than some scratchy ballpoint. If God wanted us to be thin, sugar wouldn't taste so good.

Some say that it's nature to obsess. In the distance a lab scientist is recording the hypothesis formally... The rats choose chocolate nine times out of ten, but they always feel guilty about it later.

The doctor says my stomach will rot; the shrink says my mind will rot; Dolly just wants to elope. And it's a tempting offer because only she understands the blood-bending bliss of eating your 35th Almond Joy, sick but not sick enough. Never sick enough.