Last week I was on the verge of turning into a one-armed “Get off my lawn” cranky old man. But I live in San Francisco, where nobody has a lawn, so who the hell knows what kind of twisted pet peeve I would have latched onto in its place.
Since I like having friends and an anonymous reader or two, I readjusted my attitude. No more carping about my eternal thumbs-up. Just embrace the damn thing:
My name is Michael McAllister, and I approve of this barber.
I approve of this ocean.
I approve of this dog.
I approve of this team.
I approve of this toy.
I approve of Carrie.
I approve of this Saturday night.