On this almost July 4th, let us take a look back at the wonderful things our country has done these last 12 months in America's long tradition of freedom. There was this one time when...I mean, we had to have...well someone said...okay, we'll keep looking. Maybe it's behind the eggs.

I'm kidding, of course. You'd see something if it were behind the eggs because an egg carton is fairly short. Also, I'm kidding about not being able to think of great things America has done this past year. Despite all of the crappy stuff for which we get made fun (see grammar rules, anal), America is an okay place to be. I expect "America is an okay place to be" to shortly replace "America the Beautiful" as one of the songs we teach to third graders.

It's hard to go somewhere without hearing someone complain about a facet of America. And that's wonderful because we're all allowed to. We can complain about politics and religion and columnists and anything we want to, and that's part of our charm. Though I doubt the authors of the constitution ever imagined anyone would complain about me, mainly because our forefathers hadn't met me yet when they wrote it.

Maybe we shouldn't have sent troops to Iraq. Or maybe we should have sent more. Maybe the guy at the war protest with a sign that says "I Like Ike" should be medicated. Whatever our opinions, we're free to talk about the issues, and even make fun of them on shows like Saturday Night Live, which we will also later make fun of. We are free to both be stupid and point out stupidity, and to me, that is real freedom. Or at least all the freedom I need because man, am I stupid. And I keep noticing it.

Some of us are free to eat all the fast food we can, while others are free to sue the fast food restaurant for serving it to them. Still others are free to make fun of the people who sued and others are free to make fun of the people who made fun of the people who sued but happen to fall down while making fun of them. Ahhh, now that's freedom.

This country is a grand one, filled with road signs with unintentional sexual innuendo of which college kids take pictures and laugh at for years. This country is a majestic one, ripe with out of touch laws that haven't been repealed and therefore make great email forwards. This country is a fine one, overflowing with souvenir postcards and license plates and miniature ears of corn with "Cheboygan" written on the side, so you don't get it confused with all of your other miniature ears of corn.

I love it here. I love all the traffic and the taxes and the toxic waste and the jaywalking and the Jehovah's Witnesses and the jury duty. Okay, not the jury duty. But I love the creative way I've been getting out of it for the last five years, and ain't that America.

Sometimes, I get upset with America, and I want it to be a better place. But I try not to forget about how wonderful it already is. Where else can a 23-year-old unemployed kid make a living on 800 words a week? Seriously, if you know, tell me, because I need to know where else someone as lazy as I am can survive. Again, I'm kidding. I couldn't survive anywhere else and I know it.

Some people make fun of the American people for being even lazier than me. And in some respects, they're right. Individually, we are in our boxers at noon on a Tuesday playing Double Dragon. But collectively, we have mowed the lawn, taken out the garbage, and cooked a five-course meal by the time most countries have woken up. And then we sit around for the rest of the day playing Double Dragon.

Sure, I'm embarrassed by a lot of what happens in our country. I'm not proud of our history of segregation, classism, and reality TV. But while we haven't aced the final quite yet, I don't see any other countries ruining the curve.

So when the Fourth of July comes, which will probably happen in a matter of days, celebrate what we have. Set off fireworks and eat hot dogs and listen to the Star-Spangled Banner. Then make fun of people for singeing their hand on the fireworks and spilling hot dog ketchup on their shirt, and not knowing the words to the Star-Spangled Banner. And for god sakes, shut up about what's wrong for a day and smile about what's right.

Like getting out of jury duty.

God, if you're listening, and I know you are because that's what you do for a living, you've got to chill with this rain stuff. Sure, it was funny at first. For a while, we were all waking up, looking out the window and thinking, "oh, that's cute, it's raining again." But it's getting old, man. We get the point. It's wet. Move on. At this point, even frogs or locusts would be alright.

It has been raining pretty constantly in most parts of the country, even though it's late June. Which makes sense because winter was two months longer than it should have been. I get the feeling that God overslept, and woke up in March thinking it was still January. By that logic, May was March and June is April - explaining why there have been more washouts this month than premiere season on UPN.

As I've written before, the typical problem with good weather is Ugly Fat Hot Day. That's the first warm day of each year, where everyone, regardless of body-type, wears skimpy clothing. And while some people may enjoy sitting next to a large man on the subway separated by nothing more than a washcloth, I'm not a fan of this practice. Thankfully, as the weather stays nice, people remember who is allowed to wear a tube top and who isn't. That guy on the train definitely isn't.

But this year, we've had one or two good days followed by weeks of cold and rain, making the first nice day of every month Ugly Fat Hot Day. And thus, even when the warm sun feels wonderful against your skin, your eyes are still killing you.

There are some pluses to all this rain. Weathermen must have it pretty easy.

"Today's forecast calls for, I don't know, rain? Back to you, Skip."

There are also a lot of baseball games being rained out, which force doubleheaders, a practice that has been all but lost in the last 10 years. And there is nothing I enjoy more than spending the day at a ballpark, watching two games - in the rain.

Of course, I can't afford to go to the ballpark anymore because of the rising price of my laundry. I'm used to washing t-shirts and shorts this time of year. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to wash jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, and soaking wet socks? I do, because I've been doing it for the last eight months.

The worst side effect of this whole thing is how easy it has become to initiate a conversation. My ability to approach anyone and start talking used to give me an advantage, but now that's been neutralized. What good is being able to crack a clever joke about any situation when some clod with an umbrella can do just as well with, "what's with this weather?"

Last spring, New York had a drought. The drought was so bad that lawns were left unsprinkled, sidewalks were not hosed down, and diners made you specifically ask for water. This year, lawns don't need to be sprinkled, sidewalks don't need to be hosed down, and the diners are pushing water like it's yesterday's meatloaf.

"The soup today is split pea, and our special is roasted chicken. But you should really try the water. It's only in season for another two months."

With all this rain, it is no wonder that the world is in such disarray. Rain has been known to cause depression, a word that can also describe our current financial problems. We're also dealing with new diseases, wars, and rising unemployment. And that last one leads to a an increase in the number of people who move back in with their parents, which can't be good for anyone. Annie told us that the sun will come out tomorrow. But that's a hard to believe when the forecast has been calling for rain since March. Especially for those of us who can no longer afford to bet our bottom dollar (see wallet, mine). It's appropriate that the phrase most commonly used to describe global tensions is "world climate." Because today's forecast calls for, I don't know, rain?

I do not write this to depress anyone - I'm just saying that it would be a lot easier to deal with everything around us if we could do it from the beach or a park or even walking to work without an umbrella. Spring is my favorite season, and it hasn't happened yet this year. The thing that worries me most is that we won't even have a late spring - we'll just skip it entirely. It's supposed to be 90 degrees in much of the country next week. 90! But that's alright - it will probably rain again next weekend.

Back to you, Skip.

When I'm at a bar with a few friends and the night is not spicy enough to hold my attention, I have come up with the perfect solution - throw ice.

At least that's what some no-necked classmates of mine used to do on lazy Thursday nights. It's a quick way to generate hatred from your fellow bar-goers, which would instantly make anyone's night better.

I have a little man in my head whose job it is to remind me not to throw ice at people. He's due for a promotion soon, since I've never even thought of doing it. Hopefully, you've got that same little man working for you. If he's on a break, on strike, or never seems to show up on time, you are probably a bar jerk.

The impressive thing about bar jerks is that they can be bar jerks in any situation, even without the presence of alcohol. These same guys can elbow you out of the way to catch an elevator, catcall at your girlfriend while your arm is around her, and peel out of a parking space to get caught behind a red light. The bar jerk is a mere annoyance and often amounts to nothing. Which is ironic, since the route of the bar jerk's behavior is the galactically mistaken impression that he is more important than you.

The bar jerk's intelligence can vary. He may be a football player or a med student, or a football playing med student. But he throws ice, which puts him on an evolutionary par with the Cro-Magnon man and Howard Stern.

In some ways, I am the stereotypical classification of an Alpha Male. I played on seven intramural teams in college. I watch SportsCenter more than once a day, and often consecutively. I was the social chair of my school's Greek Council. I don't let a conversation go on in front of me without butting in. And my job is to get on a stage and entertain people. But the day I throw ice at you is the day someone sets you on fire.

My friends and I pride ourselves on being regular guys. We are guys that prefer conversation to blank stares. Guys that are equally comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt as we are in khakis and a polo. Guys that will call our girlfriends when we want to talk to them. Hell, we are guys that are willing to call someone our girlfriend in the first place.

If you're a guy reading this and wondering if you are an Alpha Male, you're probably not. An Alpha Male has already known he is an Alpha Male ever since he got in trouble for hitting on his third grade teacher. But more importantly, you are willingly reading something that does not contain pictures or statistics, virtually eliminating the possibility of your Alpha Maleness.

When I meet another guy, I can't always tell right away if he's a displaced bar jerk or not. When I meet him through a girl, I can always tell. Especially if one of us is dating her.

If he actively seeks conversation, he's usually a good guy. If he closes up, puts his arm around the girl, or insults me before he knows my last name, he is just a jerk marking his territory. And if he pees on her, well, maybe they're into that but it's not my style.

The reason why quality girls are left single is because they've been scorched by so many bar jerks that they inadvertently become very picky. They need to be sure not to repeat their poor choice, and thus are scared that the slightest male behavior will lead to ice-throwing. Bar jerks ruin it for the rest of us. In economic terms, quality guys are not competition for other quality guys. They just inflate the market demand. On the flipside, bar jerks are not worth the ice they throw at each other. Even if they're on fire.

So here's to the guys that hold the door open for people, regardless of gender. Here's to the guys that enjoy fancy dinners on anniversaries. Here's to the guys that walk someone home without the express intent of getting some, know how to cook more than cereal, and actually own a book. Maybe more than one. And here's to the guys that have enough respect for themselves that they can spare enough for the people around them.

Ladies - next time you meet a quality guy, make sure you appreciate how easy it would have been for him to be a bar jerk. Be happy that he has bucked the stereotype and come out a decent human being. Smile at how he actually listens to more than the rustling of your sweater when you stretch. Maybe even buy him a drink. On the rocks.

Your problems are not the end of the world. Unless your job is to prevent the end of the world. Then you're allowed to complain.

It's a hard thing to fathom that our lives are not the most important thing to other people. Most of us think that every time we chip a tooth or break a nail, everyone in our immediate vicinity needs to know the exact details. Our immediate vicinity includes our homes, our hangouts, our buddylists, and half of northern Iowa.

I don't care that your friend Sarah totally bought the same shirt as you. I don't care that Bob at the office mistook your lunch for his. And I certainly don't care that you had the weirdest dream, only you can't really remember what happened in it. And if you did remember, guess who still wouldn't care. If you could see me right now, I'd have both of my thumbs pointing squarely at the center of my chest.

I will be the first to admit that I tell a lot of stories where I'm the main character. It'd be difficult to do otherwise. If all my stories started with "I knew this one guy," not only would I be pathetic for living vicariously through other people, my next three words would probably be "at band camp."

My issue is not with people who tell stories about their lives - we all do that. It's how we allow other people to relate to us, how we kill dead air, and how we try to land a sit-com. My issue lies with people who think that the problems around which their stories revolve are more monumental than everyone else's. If your problems mattered so much, wouldn't we already know what they were? I'd be pissed if the world's media were not covering the most important story out there.

"This is Christiane Amanpour with CNN. Today, someone's friend Sarah totally bought the same shirt as her."

When you're in high school, you don't see much of the outside world, so you think that the biggest problem you'll ever face involves your classmates' opinions of you. When you're in college, you don't see much of the outside world, since your biggest problem is how to make things stop spinning. Once you're out of college, you have no excuse at all. What I'm saying is this: when you're reading about wars and czars and scars and SARS, it doesn't matter that someone cut you off on the way to work. Even if "cars" does rhyme with all those important problems.

It is more common to hear "me, me, me" in a conversation than it is to hear it at an opera. And the worst part about this phenomenon is that people force themselves to ask poorly thought out questions about their conversation partner in an effort to appear less solipsistic. I spoke to a friend shortly after I moved to a new city, started dating someone, and released my first book. I filled her in, and then she actually asked me what else was going on, as if that was not enough. She had unfortunate timing - the very next week, I cured cancer. That would have kept the conversation going for at least another minute before she started talking about herself again.

I do not mean to discourage conversation about oneself. Especially since that's how I make my living. But I do mean to remind people that when you're discussing that chipped tooth or that broken nail, know that even you will forget about it in a week. Please remember that there are bigger things out there - that you can wear another outfit, that you can buy another lunch, and that the guy who cut you off on the way to work may have needed to get to the hospital in order to remove the pole from his ass.

In other words, look around once in a while and realize that your problems aren't all that bad. That your day, no matter how poorly things may appear to be going, is just a day, and will be completely different tomorrow. Unless your job is to prevent the end of the world. Then you're allowed to complain.

There are many things I do not understand. Why people with umbrellas walk under awnings. Why the New York City subway system needs to remind us that escalators are for passengers only. How people can get jobs in the food service industry without speaking English. But I can accept those things. One I cannot accept is the thriving industry of collectors' plates.

I may be inclined to buy a picture of a memorable figure or event. This picture is not more appealing once given the ability to hold food. And limiting the number available does not make me want it more, since I didn't want it in the first place. Though I do appreciate the diminishing odds of receiving one of these crappy things as a present. I never question why they only make 1,000 of a particular plate. I question why they ever made any in the first place.

See, someone with an umbrella under an awning is annoying, especially if you're tall. Unless you enjoy being poked in the eye, the situation forces you to step out from under the awning and get wet. But the umbrella-holder should have been able to see you coming and move - especially since no one has yet to poke out their eye.

But collectors' plates are REALLY annoying. I will never buy one, but I am forced to endure the commercials. I will never be interested in one, yet I am forced to "ooohhh" and "aaahhh" when my friends show me theirs. And then I am forced to find new friends to replace those that own collectors' plates.

See, the "escalators are for passengers only" announcement is inane. Has this been a problem? What else has been taking the escalator?

"Excuse me sir, you can't be on this escalator."

"But I'm the train conductor!"

"I know. Escalators are for passengers only."

But collectors' plates are REALLY inane. Why put artwork on a plate? Why not a cereal bowl? Or more appropriately for Elvis fans, a gravy boat?

See, someone who can't speak English in a food service position in an English speaking country is ridiculous. I can just imagine their job interview.

"So, tell me a little bit about your background."

"..."

"Good, good. And where were you educated?"

"..."

"Excellent school. Are you willing to start right away?"

"..."

"You're hired!"

But collectors' plates are REALLY ridiculous. Okay, maybe not as ridiculous as trying to get a napkin from someone who thinks it's a straw, but they're still ridiculous. Collectors' plates are a case of supply creating demand. Because there's a limited supply, there's suddenly a demand. You mean to tell me there are only 1,000 of something that doubles as both a serving dish and a picture of Shirley Temple? I have one question - where do I send my two easy payments of $19.99?

As often happens when I criticize something (see week, every), I'm sure I will get some angry letters. I expect many to fully explain the history of collectors' plates and why they're an integral part of America's culture. In response I will explain that garish items like collectors' plates are the reason why other countries don't like American culture.

I want to know why the first collectors' plate was made. "Oh, I love this picture of Elvis. But I think it would look better were it partially smeared with mash potatoes. Or at least more realistic."

Though I can't understand why anyone would buy a collectors' plate, I can understand companies continually producing them. When a fool and his money have been parted, no one wants to give him a map to find his way back.

Though you could probably sell that map for two easy payments of $19.99.