Warning: Today's column may cause nausea or vomiting, and not just because of the writing.

Ladies: Men spit. It's a fact of life like puberty or celebrity drug addiction. It will not be solved by handkerchiefs, and Prohibition would only lead to underground spiteasies.

So you, the dignified woman, say, "Okay, fine, but can't you just wait for a restroom?"

I believe that I speak for all men when I say -- haaawk -- "No." Tooey.

I support this premise by revisiting early history, when Neanderthals roamed the earth with brains no bigger than those of our current world leaders. Without the aid of fences, Early Man defined his turf with loogies (those weren't all stalagmites).

What I'm saying is that spit is in our genes. And on our jeans. And in our hair.

It's a little-known fact that Isaac Newton discovered gravity not beneath an apple tree, as the squares would have you believe, but from the local bell tower, where he and his buddies were spitting for distance. Fascinating how they all fall at the same rate...

E=mc2? Same thing. Spit contest.

In China, spitting is so chic that government fines the spitter 50 yuan and makes him clean up the mess (and you thought soy sauce stained your laundry).

Recall, ladies, that we are dealing with a gender that belches by way of hello. As boys, we vow to become baseball players not for fame or fortune or love of the game, but for the freedom to spit at will, in the middle of "The National Anthem" if necessary.

In third grade, when I was still training for baseball, Principal Dirk sent me home for spitting on a colleague.

"It wasn't spit, sir. It was just water and a little grape juice."

"I'm not going to argue the semantics of spitting, Jason. I'm calling your parents."

I didn't know what "semantics" was, but it had something to do with a big ol' butt-whoopin'. So it goes.

Expectorant, as it reads on your progress report, is a tradition for grade school boys. Steve Allison and I used to spit for style -- that's right, form and posture -- off the roof of Wildwood Elementary. Sometimes we dabbled in synchronized spitting.



Imagine what we might have achieved had we a role model like Kentucky spit champion George Craft.

"A spitter's greatest joy," he said to Time Magazine, "is hitting the moving target. You ought to see a cat run when you spit in his eye."

I'm sure that means something.

On the other side of Wonderland, painter Albert Reyes performs "spit art" outside his exhibitions, spewing on the sidewalk like a celebrity with drug addiction.

"I prefer to use wine," he told The New York Times. "It's like a finely sharpened pencil."

At the risk of being kicked out of The Man Club, I will confess that researching this topic grossed me the hell out.

Above the drinking fountain at my gym is a sign reading, "Please don't spit in the basin." And while I appreciate their reasons, the last thing I want to think about when I bend down for water is SOMEONE ELSE'S SPIT.

Do we really share the freeway with people who need a no-spitting reminder? How about a sign above the urinal: "Please don't pee on your neighbor. Thank you. Management."

Perhaps it is time for some ground rules -- places on the ground where men can spit. Surely there's a compromise between Prohibition and the spittoon. Left to women, guys would spit only in the event of food poisoning and then with permission.

How about this, gentle reader: Men can spit, without dirty looks, on any grass surface providing that no one is eating. Consider it an environmental service, like donating to The Sierra Club. Men can also spit and/or adjust themselves during all sporting events, whether playing or watching.

Remember, ladies: Spitting is a biologically encoded function. If you don't make concessions, men will eventually revolt and run naked through the streets, belching to each other in hello, spitting in cats' eyes, building stalagmites ...

And it would take some pretty big signs to stop it.

When I arrive at the Pearly Gates, I'll have some questions. For starters, are Pearly Gates really enough to keep out the bad guys? I mean, these people orchestrate heists and campaign for office.

There will be other questions, to be sure. Would you know I've been writing a list...

Why are there "no shoplifting" signs? Are there places where it's okay?

How come psychics never win the lottery?

Why not one long month with 365 days?

If necessity is the mother of invention, how come we have so much useless crap?

How can Santa Claus get old but never die?

What is the Universe expanding onto?

Why is there boxing at the Goodwill Games?

What do you call a fly with no wings? A walk?

When people go to the bathroom, why do they say they'll be right back? Do they ever stay?

Where do Hawaiians go on vacation?

If we don't say "amen," does God just keep on listening?

What are we supposed to do when they issue air quality warnings? Hold our breath?

How come so many good-looking faces are wasted on ugly people?

Why don't we ever drop flowers on other countries to let them know that we love them?

Why do we call it a walk when the batter jogs to first base and becomes a runner?

When your palm itches, it means that you're about to make money. What does it mean when your butt itches?


Is it really low-fat, or does the serving just fit in the palm of your hand?

Wouldn't it be easier to take, say, cabbage from a baby?

Why are his-and-her presents always for her?

When porn stars get married, do guests get to attend the honeymoon?

If meteorologist study the weather, who's watching out for the meteors?

How do you blow a French kiss?

If God made Earth for man, how come there's so much water?

Will we ever find a cure for that mysterious illness that turns three-day weekends into four-day weekends?

Why are softballs so hard?

When will we develop solar energy? When Exxon owns the sun?

What's the difference between neurotic and eccentric? How much money you make?

How come so few people are familiar with the word "arcane"?

Is it time to have a telethon for Jerry Lewis?

Does wild rice have to be hunted?

We have curling in the Olympics. Why not horse shoes or tiddlywinks?

Who invented Soap-on-a-Rope? A prisoner?

Why can't the chicken just appreciate the side of the road she's on?

Holistic dentistry?! Isn't that what they had in the Middle Ages?

People talk on cell phones in the lobby. Why do they take exception when I read aloud?

How can J&D mass-market rare scotch?

Why do we call them elevators when they go up and down?

What do you call tights that are too big for you?

What if we run out of hypothetical questions?


And Saint Peter will roll his eyes, knowing what I'm up to -- delayed sentencing. Johnny Cochrane had tried the same tactic. So it goes.

"Mr. Love, I see that you thrice used the Bible as a coaster. In the sixth grade you called Jamie Wetzel a 'pencil-neck geek' before turning his cotton briefs into a G-string.

"You wrote inexcusable puns and prided yourself on the ability to belch 'The Star-Spangled Banner.'"

And I will look straight ahead with elevator face.

"I'm afraid that we will be sending you back as a pencil-neck geek so that you can explore at greater depth the answers to your silly little questions."

Billy Graham said that heaven is like a "never-ending family reunion," which is funny because that's exactly the way I describe hell. I just know that if we're permitted to come back as whatever we please, I will definitely choose brassiere.

In the meantime, I promise to refrain from placing beverages on the Scripture and giving wedgies to my classmates, but there is little I can do about the hokey word plays. Even now I'm wondering if, when it stinks to high heaven, the smell goes all the way up to cloud nine or stops at seventh heaven.

Saint Peter? Oh, Mr. Peter?...

My issues with time started early, when I kept my mom in labor so long that Dr. Rabban finally came after me with tongs.

In grade school, I routinely missed the bus and had to be driven to school -- manually -- by same mother. How, she wondered aloud to the dog, could her son spend 30 minutes playing with floaties in the gutter?

The bus driver called me his "tardy tot" and waited as long as he could. He had fancied me ever since that day I asked who closed the bus doors when the driver got out.

In high school, I grew my hair long and rebelled against the whole "time thing," a horrible approach to curfew. Without a clock, we relied on neighbors for the time:

"Would you quiet down already?! It's two in the morning!"

Can you blame us for boycotting a world where people wake up to ALARMS and fight RUSH hour traffic to meet arbitrary DEADlines? It's enough to make you drop out, cat, and recite poetry in beatnik cafes:

"This watch, a parasite on my wrist, a tick ... tock ... a tick ... tock ..."

My dad was surprised to hear that I owned a watch. He had always been more fussy with the time. Like Big Ben.

Recently, during a family outing to the park -- Santa Anita -- my dad called me for an ETA (estimated time of apology). He seemed to be gnawing on his Rolex.

"Why," I asked, "is it so important for us to leave two hours before the bugle?"

"Because," he said, "we like to get there early and relax."

So it goes.

On-time people invented the sharp. "We're leaving on Sunday, 10:00 sharp ... machete sharp." And tardy tots countered with the ish. "I'll be there 10:00ish," which could mean 11:00, 12:00, or Monday.

My long-hair philosophies broke down in corporate. At job interviews, I deflected the time question, saying, "Punctual? You betcha. I always use commas and periods."

The manager would laugh and move on, freeing us from the cold, hard reality: I had no idea how time works. I was late for so many meetings that I finally ran out of alibis. Eventually, it was just, "Sorry I'm late, but I was somewhere else."

We who suffer from time denial don't allow for things like showering, traffic, floaties in the gutter. It's like we all own telepods and can materialize anywhere at a moment's notice.

"The play is at eight? Perfect! I get off at eight!"

Fortunately, most people soften if you show up with make-good -- flowers for the girlsies, beer for the boysies. You might also bring a joke.



"If I were a mayfly, I would have been born in June. But seriously, how late am I?"

I also carry a speeding ticket, which acts like a doctor's note in case of emergency. This policy was inspired by the bona fide emergency of five fuming bridesmaids.

Tardy tots mean no disrespect. It's just that the only thing worse than being late is being early. Sure, the early bird gets the worm, but he also sits around reading Highlights magazine. And that time is never refunded.

So in our effort to be neither early nor late, we skitter through life like chickens with our heads cut off, only chickens have the good sense to die. Twice I've locked my keys in the car WHILE IT WAS RUNNING.

My Scottish mechanic had the same expression both times ... "bloody eejit."

People suggest that I simply start earlier, but what they don't understand -- thank you for sharing -- is that time rises to its own level. There will always be floaties in the gutter. I could start showering the day before and still reach my ETA.

My shrink, cunning devil, showed up 30 minutes late for our last appointment just to show me how it feels. He found out later when I paid half the bill.

Friends may gnash at their watches and fume from the ears, but someday, when that tick bleeds me dry, they will realize that it was nothing personal, that I was basically a decent man who lived before his time -- before the telepod.

And they will be given to ponder these things as they sit around at my funeral waiting for the casket of the late, late Jason Love.

Someone suggested that I take a long walk on a short pier...

"You need to lighten up, man."

That was Yahaira. She used to be my wife; now she's my best friend (she got demoted after our divorce). Yahaira lives down the street, and we gossip through the night about our love lives.

"Let's have an adventure," she said.

And what made more sense than overnight camping for two people who don't own a tent. We borrowed supplies from an over-trusting neighbor and arrived at the campground shortly after eleven ... p.m.

"We got a little lost," said Yahaira.

Pam, the register lady, chuckled country-style, but I could see her thought bubble: What a coupla twits.

Pam pointed to our campsite "two miles yonder as a crow flies." Yahaira and I stared into the night with twisted lips.

"What about security?" said Yahaira.

Pam waffled like the president without his ear piece.

"Well, patrol doesn't actually go out that far, but there's a security gate. You'll be fine."

Yahaira squeezed my arm. You could hear the music from "Friday the 13th": Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

We drove to the "security gate," a metal bar certain to keep away killers ... UNLESS THEY'RE ON FOOT. The pole was fastened with a padlock that could withstand anything up to but not including a light wind.

Two Confederates drifted by holding half-crumpled cans of Budweiser. One serenaded Yahaira. So it goes.



Safe behind the Barricade o' Death, we followed our headlights to stake number three. Home. Yahaira took to striking, or pitching, or whatevering, the camp. I was in charge of cursing the fire pit.

"What is WRONG with this wood?"

I spread the leaves, showered kerosene, melted my sneaker. Nothin'. How do forest fires start in the first place?

Fire seemed urgent on account of the crunching sounds. Every few minutes, a branch would crack in a way that made your neck hair stand up. Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

Yahaira suggested -- okay, I suggested, I suggested -- that we go home. But we had driven all night, and I had already set my shoe on fire ... We agreed to sleep in the truck beside our trusty steak knives. With a gulp and a goodnight, we drifted off and forgot the whole thing ever happened.

Until Yahaira woke up gasping.

"What's the matter?" I said.

She had no air to answer. Yahaira's nightmares get that way. It's endearing when you're not STUCK IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE.

"There's a dead body," she said. "Men are looking for us."

I could see that she needed assurance. I grabbed her shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, "I wish we had a grown-up."

"I want to go home," said Yahaira.

"NOW?!"

It was two a.m., when rednecks are loosed from local taverns wielding rifles and scythes. In muddy socks I repackaged our campground while Yahaira, by show of support, revved the engine.

We skidded through the security gate, which was -- surprise -- wide open. It wasn't till the 101 that we eased our sphincters and reflected: "Remember that woman's eyes when we asked about security?... What about the open gate?... Do you suppose Velma and Scooby are okay?"

We plopped down at Denny's, I in one shoe, Yahaira in her PJs, both of us reeking of cinder. And there at our sticky table we laughed and gorged and remembered a pointer from Dave Barry: "Camping is nature's way of promoting the hotel industry."

We had reached that sleepover high when you talk really fast to beat the sunrise. Yahaira and I had spent some quality friend-time fearing for our lives together and had already planned our next trip to "almost go camping."

At six a.m., we hugged and parted ways. Somewhere in the distance, the sun pried through the oak trees to reveal a hastily abandoned campground bearing one melted sneaker, an unused steak knife, and two half-crumpled cans of Budweiser.

Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.