But you know what's even harder to swallow? Interracial bliss.

You can put a snoring black man and a bemused black woman in bed together (another subway campaign, promoting marriage) and it looks about right, but every portrayal of interracial couples makes them seem like Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch's "Lov-ah" characters from SNL. Wrapped around each other, beaming, endorphins rushing as their eyes meet and their globules of melanin wriggle with excitement, these diverse dyads have no problem that some combination of big booty, no booty, slanted eyes, Afro, Jewfro, horn-rimmed glasses, grillz, purple highlights and wispy goatee can't fix. The power of colorful love can even win elections - ask New York City's new public advocate, white guy Bill De Blasio, his black wife and whack (white/black) kids, who starred prominently in his TV ads.

This is more ridiculous than anything Balki Bartokomous opined on. Interracial couples fight all the time, over their differences as much as their common humanity. My Asian-American warned me from the start not to call her "oriental," which is only supposed to refer to inanimate objects, so I already have a cultural minefield to avoid. For fun she nibbles on "fish snacks," the suicide bomber of disgusting munchables dressed as normal treats, whose aroma explodes my nose whenever her mouth approaches mine.

As a laid-back white guy whose earning prospects in the creative industries are magnitudes below the painfully productive Asian doctors and bankers my gal's relatives pushed her toward, I'm already viewed warily by her family, and giving them a bag of oranges won't help. Neither does my love for Conan O'Brien, whose comedy is "not natural" according to the gal's dad. Then there's the language barrier - I'm looking around befuddled as the Cantonese flies around the dinner table and bits of English creep in. The same occurs even for my Mandarin Chinese friend and his Cantonese gal. Two Wongs don't always make a right.

The next time you see a colorful couple laughing it up, drinking in love on a billboard, shake your head in disbelief. There's only one certainty that comes from an interracial pairing: Their kids, like Fred Armisen or any mid-level bad guy on "24," will be able to play characters of multiple races, hence better earning potential. Isn't that what really brings us together?

The Mussed look had its day. And I think that day is now over. And even if it's not over for those kids who are currently being weaned on Jonas Brothers firehose spray ejaculations, surely it's over for thirty-somethings. Isn't it time you stopped pretending to be 24 and too damned cool for the world? Isn't it time you actually took the time to present a look that doesn't say, "I made it this far, you should be proud I put in the effort to even come"?

We suppose there are merits to the mussed look--it gives you a certain slackness that renders as unaffected when viewed through the lens of teenage uncertainty. But aren't you supposed to have most of life figured out by now? We think the rule should be, if you have a mortgage, you can't do the bed head look anymore. Or if you work at any financial institution. Or if you have kids.

Deliberate Bed Head is about as stunningly original as a tube of toothpaste, and even less meaningful. Now, I know what you're thinking. It's not just the look. It's an entire indie culture projected onto fashion and style and food, and the bed head look is predicated upon a preconceived notions of what is cool. It's thumbing the establishment and square fascism of corporate tooldom!

Except that every corporate stooge, from exec to unpaid intern, is sporting the look. So what does that make you, Mr. Indie Fare? You're not supporting the revolution just because you buy a bottle of TGI Catwalk and stick your legs in a pair of skinny jeans.

You may think mussing your hair gives you authority to speak with passion about things like Darfur, climate change, and the latest Apple Orgasmo that you can stick in your embroidered jean pocket, but isn't it more accurate to say that adjusting your hair so it looks unadjusted is the paramount of hypocrisy? You might think you have a mind of your own with that f**king independent look, but marketing execs have you pegged, my shallow friend, and you're the first person they line up against the wall to shoot when the real revolution comes.

Combing your hair might just be the craziest, most daring thing you do all day. You might give it a try, and see the world through a pair of adult eyes. Keep your youth. Don't hold on to your malignant hair style. I suggest you do what Colonel Zaroff does in "The Most Dangerous Game." Let the bed head out into the jungle. Then hunt it, shoot it, and stuff it for future visitors to see what a man you really are.

When did girls get the idea that it's OK to sing to yourself in public?  Evangelicals know what I'm talking about.  Girls love these emotional pop worship songs they sing in the Sunday service or youth group, to the extent that they don't just hum to themselves in non-church contexts, but actually sing the words in a sing-songy voice.  "Open the eyes of my heart, Lord [chirp chirp], open the eyes of my heart [coo], I want to see you [warble]," they burble absentmindedly while shopping for daisy dukes at Target.

It's not the content of the songs that bug me - it's the self-infatuation they enable.  Girls don't just want to look pretty, but to sound pretty, and without a gaudy display.  Staying on pitch while going falsetto to hit the high notes of the arpeggio - in sotto voce, no less - demonstrates a level of grace and poise that would impress even Miranda Priestly.  It's the kind of achievement that women in commercials celebrate with a bowl of Special K Red Berries.

Yet public singing creates public awkwardness around the out-of-the-closet worshiper.  "Livin' On A Prayer" is never meant to be taken even half-seriously, much less venerably, when sung in public.  It's catchy, we're stupid for enjoying such pablum, yet "we've got to hold on to what we've got" - namely our big-boy crushes on Jon Bon.  No winking nods are allowed when a girl is singing about actual prayer.  We must contort our faces into a wince of serene approval as she trills "come, now is the time to give your heart" while reviewing the Cheesecake Factory menu.

As the wisdom-and-wife-hoarding Teacher said, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven."  So I beg you, vocal vixens, pipe down in public.  The rocks will cry out if God wants the noise brought.