Over Memorial Day weekend my family and I went to the Jersey Shore, Ocean City to be specific. I just want to ask those of you reading this blog: What is it about boardwalks next to crashing waves that makes us want to eat Fried Oreos? Is it the fresh air, blowing from the waves, giving us a giddy feeling that makes us want to engorge ourselves? Is it the fact that it's warm, we're wearing shorts and low socks (see below), and thus fried bits of chocolate sound better than a nice salad and a granola bar? I suspect that there is some deep evolutionary need that drives us to desire fried things next to a beach. I just haven't figured it out yet, what with all those available fish.

As one originally from California, and at times living not-so-far from a beach (Santa Monica), I went to the Jersey Shore with some trepidation, expecting, oh, I don't know--big hairy guys with lots of bling strolling along next to women with too much hair. My sad stereotypes aside, the Jersey shore (at least in Ocean City, "Named #1 Beach in New Jersey!" a billboard proclaimed) was actually quite nice, and the people not so different from the ones who might stroll Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica on a late afternoon (though mostly more pale and mostly less blond).

The same deep need that drove us to eat Fried Oreos apparently also drives one to purchase a $9.99 sweatshirt stating "Ocean City" on it. My mother informed me that this sweatshirt was really rented: one wash would do it in. I told her I will not be washing this sweatshirt. Ha.

It really was a wonderful time at the beach. People good naturedly rode bikes and surreys on the boardwalk, generally trying not to mow down pedestrians. The beach was windy but the sand excellently white, and we managed to fly a kite for the first time in several years. It only dove unexpectedly once, upsetting a big hairy guy with lots of bling next to a woman with too much hair.

As you should know if you know anything about beagles, they live by the nose. The nose is all. Smells are everywhere, bad smells, yucky smells, meaty smells. They're all good.

On the outside, of course, I disdain fashion. "I'm my own person," I declare, "With my own style. Don't tell me how to dress!" And let me tell you, what a style it is.

However, my contradictory feelings and behaviors on this issue were brought home last summer, with the Incident of the Low Socks.

While not necessarily attuned to fashion, I am not completely unaware, either. I had noticed, in watching what my kids were wearing, that their socks were gettting lower and lower by the week. They had started, say, 5 inches above the top of their shoes, and by last May, had gotten down to about a quarter inch above the shoe, and showed serious signs of disappearing altogether. At first, I made a simple-minded (and in retrospect, misguided) gender argument. I argued that any self-respecting man or boy would not be caught dead in low socks. Low socks were for tennis players and sissies (okay, okay, I said it was misguided). I went through my 8-year old son's sock drawer and tried to throw away his low socks. It seemed like a moral action--I had his whole masculine career to protect!

My daughters were not swayed by this juvenile response and held their ground. Deriding my 5-inch white socks, they suggested that all these cotton retros served to do was to point the way to the extended pale sticks I called legs. "Look around," they noted. "NO ONE wears tall socks with shorts anymore. It's so over." Being the observant social analyst that I pride myself to be, I began to pay attention to short, sneaker and sock wear habits. At malls, at fairs, at Stop N Shop, I stared at people's shorts and socks. This didn't endear me to everyone, but it did allow me to gather data.

And with a sinking heart, I discovered that that my daughters were right. Socks were getting lower and lower and the poor dinosaurs out there with the 5-inch variety were starting to look pretty pale in comparison. In both senses of the word.

So I gave in. Shopping at BJ's, I discovered a 12-pack of Nike brand low socks. They had everything--lowness, a brand name plastered on them, and a price tag of $5. This, I thought, would defnitely raise my profile with the younger set. Not only were they low, but they had a brand name on them! Tres Cool! I'll be the hit of the July 4th picnics!

"Nice socks, Dad," the daughters declared. But I couldn't help but detect some slight lack of enthusiasm in their voices--somehow this was not a clear fashion victory. Some small hesitation had appeared, some slight dent in the Cool exterior I had begun to portray...

"They're good, Dad, really." But? "But they're like a half-inch above the shoe, Dad--they look a little tacky." I was devastated. They were low, but not low enough. They were progress in the right direction, but they hesitated right above coolness. In fact, the void, the moat I felt between me, my style, and the rest of the world's coolness factor felt as wide as ever.

Of course, given the fact that I had spent $5 and that I had 12 pair of them, I had no intention of changing my current strategy. Damn the fashion, I said. I'm wearing the not-quite-low-enough socks.

You've experienced this: you're working on a home improvement project; let's say you're trying to create a doggy-door for your beagle. You got energetic and managed to cut a hole in the door, using your recently purchased Black & Decker jig saw (probably the only time you'll ever use the thing, but it felt good--kind of manly and tool-like). Now you have to attach the doggy door, a plastic contraption that needs to be attached to both sides of the big door. Here's the problem: the screws included with the door are not long enough, because you have an extra wide door. "No problem, " you think. "I'll head to Home Depot--they've got tons of different kinds of screws!" On the way out the door to The Depot (as you like to call it), you also note to yourself that you could use another can of WD-40, and perhaps some masking tape. You don't write any of this down, because, after all, it's only three items--you'll remember that! Getting into the van (no self-respecting man would go to The Depot in anything smaller than a van, even if it is mini), your wife reminds you that you need some 75-watt lightbulbs. "Not a problem," you shout back. You're going to the Depot.

You arrive at The Depot, still in command of your world. You are feeling the confidence of someone who's fixing things, someone who's using their hands in communion with metal and wood; someone who is finally putting something together! No more of this sitting behind a desk producing strings of useless letters--you're actually MAKING something!

You smile at a couple of people in bright orange aprons, but your smile seems to bounce off somewhere over their heads--they look professionally disconnected. No matter! Your'e on a quest! You're going to fix things!

And then, it happens. On your way past the light bulbs (hey, wait a minute--what watt was I supposed to get?) you see a set of screwdrivers. Shouldn't I get a set of screwdrivers, as long as I'm here? They seem pretty cool in that hard plastic pouch, and I always hated the screwdrivers I had...okay. Got the screwdrivers. Now I need the screws. Wait a minute--how long a screw did I need? You wind your way to the Hardware aisle and are immediately confronted by a wall of screws. A sideways acre of screws. Screw heaven. But the more screws you see, the less sure you are of which screw you wanted for that doggy door. You'd really hate to go all the way back home without the right screw. But which one is best? Those gold ones? Rather than have to come back, you decide to get 27 different kinds. That should solve the problem.

Your sense of being in command is slowly ebbing. Your mind is spinning a little, you're no longer as confident about those screws. You can't remember what else you were supposed to get, either--weren't there two other things? And who put those screwdrivers into my cart?! I don't need screwdrivers!

I careened down another aisle, past a guy trying to reach something on a tall rolling ladder, past the portable air conditioners (hey, that's not a bad idea--), and tripped over a bunch of...light bulbs. Wait a minute, didn't I need lightbulbs?

I spied some asphalt driveway patch on the other side of a pile of broken lightbulbs. Hey, that's not a bad idea--I'd been thinking of getting around to that. Okay, I think I had everything...but I still had a vague sense of forgetting things. In my current state, I didn't feel that I could interact with humans, so I went through the Automatic Check Out. The machine spoke to me in Spanish, and rejected my bar codes. I'd had enough. I scanned my credit card through the debit card thing, looked for nonexistent change, and beat it out of there. My ears were ringing, my mind, a blank.

And that's how, one leaves for Home Depot looking for 2 screws, some WD-40, masking tape, and 75-watt light bulbs, and comes home with 27 screws, asphalt patch, a set of screwdrivers, and light bulbs that sound rattle-y. Don't fret. It's not you. It's the Home Depot Effect.

For reasons that remain obscure, I have thought a lot about soap scum. You all know soap scum to be that dark matter that accumulates along the sink or in the shower and generally looks gunky or bad. The interesting thing about soap scum, however, is that it carries the seeds of its own destruction. Soap scum is made up, after all, of soap. It simply has had the misfortune of also attracting dirt to itself. Various cleaners are offered to combat soap scum, but you really don't need any of them -- simply adding water (and some vigorous scrubbing) will do the trick. Assuming that the goal of soap scum is to be dirty and to spread dirt, it is its own worst enemy. Soap scum is doomed by the simple activity of wiping it off.

Elements or people that carry "the seeds of their own destruction" are typically considered as a downward cycle, an illustration of a depressing trend from good ("She was so smart...") to the inevitable bad ("...but her habits led to her ultimate downfall."). Products are purchased with the increasing tendency that their entire intent is to fall apart, so that you will be forced to go out and purchase a new one. We are able to construct new forms of our knowledge, perhaps via online degrees or through the media, but replacing consumerist, capitalist propaganda in the form of technology and products that will break or become obsolete and incompatible over a short period is so commonplace, it's almost invisible. Witness the ghastly shelf life of my newest DVD player -- it failed in three months, then was (relatively) cheerfully replaced by a new one by the manufacturer. No surprise was indicated, no implication that the old one might be fixed; the new one was simply sent.

Soap scum sends a different message, however: that even in the dark dirty places of our lives and our society, there is hope. Underneath the scum, there is the ability for the underlying soap to correct the situation. To engender that hope, however, it requires the action of individuals: someone has to pick up the sponge and attempt to wipe away the dirt. Someone has to take action.Someone has to see that another person's bad habits are going to lead to bad places; someone has to point out that having products fail and new ones produced is a losing strategy for our economy and our earth.

Someone has to pay attention to the soap scum.

Try this: You're walking down a street in New York, or riding on the subway. Pick a face from the crowd. It is my contention that after the age of about 45, any face picked at random will immediately remind you of someone you met or knew at one time. Look, over there! It's that kid who beat you up in fifth grade. How about that guy? Yup. The guy who fixed your plumbing three years ago. Woman in the third row? Dead ringer for the receptionist at your bank.

Why has this occurred? In my own case, I think it's related to the increasing onset of nearsightedness and the fact that there is a cognitive limit to the number of unique faces that can be on file in my brain. Apparently, around the age of 44, I reached capacity on the number of uniquely featured faces I can handle.

There are some positive aspects to this phenomenon. Since everyone now looks vaguely familiar, I constantly think that I am among friends (though some, of course, will be faces you don't wish to see again), no matter where I am. There are limits, of course: my database of faces is largely a result of my U.S. cultural environment.

The downside, of course, is that I may associate my feelings with the previous owner of a face with the current owner, who statistically speaking, is quite unlikely to be the same person. Therefore, I may associate the current face with the kid who beat me up in fifth grade, even though the current owner has simply opened the door for me and is now holding it, expectantly.

I don't mind having everyone look vaguely familiar.

But I still dislike that kid in the fifth grade.