SHE: What size of refrigerator are you looking for?  20 cubic feet?

HE: A bit smaller.

SHE: 18 cubic feet?

HE: Here’s the thing: I just need to be able to fit a good-sized adult body in the freezer.

SHE: ....

ME: ....

SHE: ....

ME: ...you probably hear that joke a lot.

SHE: Fortunately, no.

I never understand why people get frustrated that I won’t go to any high school reunions--particularly people who know that I didn’t enjoy high school.  I still keep in touch with a handful of awesome people from that time, and that suits me fine.  The rest--I wish them well, but I’m not interested in going to a party with them.

“But you get to see all the people,” they say.

Well, obviously, if I liked the people, I would have liked high school. It wasn’t as though I had an issue with the buildings and the landscaping.

“But you get to see how they’ve changed.”

And I’m like, are people going to be saying these same things to former prisoners from Abu Ghraib fifteen years from now?

“I’m organizing an Abu Ghraib reunion!  You just have to go; you’ll get to see everyone you miss!”

“I don’t miss anyone. It was years of detention and torture.”

“But you get to reminisce about old times!  People will bring old pictures of everyone being stacked up on top of each other!  I know Amahl is bringing a waterboard--remember when that was trendy?”

What really worries me about Michael Jackson’s death is that his biggest asset--the rights to the Lennon/McCartney catalog--will now be auctioned off to pay for Jackson’s pile of debt.

People my age will remember what a big deal this was back in the ‘80s, when McCartney and Jackson were bitter bidders and rivals as they fought to obtain the rights.  Now, this proved to be a gift to the world of music, as it meant that they would never again team up to sing a song like “The Girl is Mine.” Nonetheless, it was pretty fierce at the time. Jackson ended up winning the rights by paying roughly $47 million.

It turns out that when you buy the rights to songs, they don’t depreciate as soon as you drive them off the lot.  Those Beatles songs are now worth hundreds of millions.

Actually, wait, that’s not true. I bought the rights to the collected work of Kid Rock for a few hundred bucks, and I completely lost that investment. So I guess it depends on whose songs you buy.  Evidently, Beatles songs hold up pretty well. (Except for “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” Does anyone really need to hear that one again?)

So here’s my worry: obviously, McCartney will cackle to himself and say “Ha!  I outlived the jerk. Now I can buy my songs back.” Except, really, what’s Paul worth? Maybe $500 million?  We’re talking the rights to the Beatles songs.  The richest people in the world are going to be all over this, particularly after they saw how Jackson netted hundreds of millions in royalties year after year as a result of his purchase.  My opinion is, the rights to these songs will be bought by some oil baron from the Middle East.

So what, you say? Well, if they have the rights, won’t they have the ability to change the songs a bit to suit their own point of view?

Say goodbye to the classics you know, and say hello to:

Back in the United Arab Emirates
Baby You Can Drive My Camel
Oil Fields Forever
The Hippy Hippy Sheik
The Fool on the Sand Dune
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds that I Got from my Personal South African Mine

Like everyone else, I’m pulling out my Jackson music and listening to it. But I’ll tell you what, I’m also pulling out my Beatles songs while I have a chance. Because it just won’t be the same when I’m hearing how that guy has a steady job but really wants to be a Fatwa Writer.

As we begin the countdown to the Fourth of July, I think it’s worth assessing some of the reasons why the United States broke away from England.  Oh sure, you can talk taxation, equal rights, whatever. But the real reason is that the Brits are willing to destroy the minds of their children for no good reason, and we realized that we had to protect our offspring.

The most recent example pertains to the British government recommending that schools not teach the “i before e except after c” rule. 

The news article discusses the matter with dispassion, but the repercussions are potentially catastrophic. You don’t just take away one of the cornerstones of western education without severe consequences. Kids need direction.  Kids need guidance.  The children of my generation were lifted aloft by the sheer, sleek simplicity of this grammar rule; it gave us solace in dark times, and kept us from listening to The Smiths more than three hours a day.  Why not just shower Britain’s schoolyards with booze, drugs, and porn while we’re at it? 

And what reason do they give?  “"The rule is not worth teaching because it doesn’t account for words like ‘sufficient,’ ‘veil’ and ‘their.’”

How did these guys survive as a world power all those years?  Listen up, continent: things that are taught in school do not have be true at all.  Was Columbus a great hero who was kind to Indians and played Chutes & Ladders with them while learning how to make cranberry sauce? Were our founding fathers a bunch of sensitive, colorblind emancipators?  Was I Love Lucy actually funny?  Of course not.  But these lies--which are still taught to this day, in classrooms all across America--form the bedrock of our families, our community, and our society.

If we stop teaching this rule, we are threatening the very fabric of our nation. This may sound like an overblown statement--that such a small, incremental change to our children’s curriculum will wreak such havoc--but once you remove one pillar of moral integrity, many more will be sure to follow.  This week, we will no longer care about “i before e, except after c"--next week, it will be grammatically acceptable to start sentences with a conjunction and end them with a preposition.  And that’s the kind of world you should be very scared of.

I have a theory that God runs reality pretty much like a corporation, and when you die you have to talk with Human Resources prior to shuffling off this plane of existence:

HR: Thanks for coming in, Mr. Howard.  Now, the first thing I’d like to ask you is--HEY. What are you doing with that iPod?

ME: Being dead doesn’t mean that I can’t enjoy quality tunes.

HR: I’m sorry, that’s company property.  The rules specifically say--"You can’t take it with you.”

ME: That is completely lame.

HR: And the stapler.

ME: Whatever.

HR: Now, let’s talk about how your career went with us. Do you feel your goals were sufficiently established?

ME: Like hell.  I had no idea what I was supposed to do.  Management needs to be much more clear about His objectives.

HR: Well, our culture prizes autonomy and self-starters.

ME: Yeah, like that Hitler guy.

HR: Come on.  If I only had a nickel every time some newly dead person defended his actions by invoking Hitler.  Now, how did you feel about your co-workers?

ME: Liked a lot of them--loved the one who did that one thing, damn, you need to teach more of your employees to do that--was annoyed by a bunch of them, and what was up with that guy who kept adding me on Facebook?  If I were you, I’d use a more stringent screening process in your recruiting.

HR: Oh, natural selection isn’t a finely tuned enough process for Your Majesty?

ME: Honestly, it needs some work. I mean, a billion years of evolution and we get Paul Blart: Mall Cop.  And we still have a tailbone for no apparent reason.

HR: What would you recommend to build a better workplace?

ME: More shared objectives, better communication, better salary, and fewer meetings. Also, flying cars.

HR: So, would you work here again?

ME: Well, I’m dead and I’m not coming back, so I’m gonna be honest with you. This place is deeply dysfunctional, it’s poorly run, and although there’s a lot of good intentions and good ideas, I think the culture needs a ground-up reworking.

HR: Actually, you could come back. You’re eligible for re-hire through our newly established reincarnation program.

ME: ....

HR: Long waiting list, though.

ME: ....what I meant to say was, I’d come back in a heartbeat. So to speak.  Love the executive management style--very “hands off,” very “create your own meaning whilst you spin in the existential void.” Which I personally find very empowering.  Great, thanks, please spell my name correctly--it’s “Greg” with one “G.” HR at my actual company never got that right.

AMERICAN CANCER SOCIETY WOMAN: Okay, we’ll schedule a pick up and collect your car. You’ll be notified in advance.  Thanks for your donation.

ME: No problem.  Thanks.

(She calls back later)

ACS WOMAN: The towing people left me a message that they’re coming by your place this afternoon.

ME: What? No one told me that.  I’m at work...I can’t meet them and give them the keys.

ACS WOMAN: What? Okay, I’ll call them and tell them that.

(Someone calls me later)

TOW GUY: Hi, I’m the towing guy, here to collect your car for the American Cancer Society. I’ll be at your place in ten minutes.

ME: You were supposed to be called by ACS Woman.  No one told me you were coming by. I’m at work. I can’t meet you.

TOW GUY: Oh. How about Monday, then?

ME: I can’t...I’m flying out of town for a week.

TOW GUY: Oh.

(ACS Woman calls me later)

ACS WOMAN: They can pick it up on Monday.

ME: I can’t, I’ll be out of town. Tell you what...can I leave the keys in the car’s exhaust pipe, like in an envelope or something?

ACS WOMAN: That could work. I’ll call the towing people and tell them that.

ME: Okay, but can you please make sure they pick it up on Monday?  I live in Oakland...leaving the keys anywhere within ten miles of a car is not a good idea.

ACS WOMAN: Okay.

(I call ACS Woman the middle of the following week)

ME: Did they pick up the car yet?

ACS WOMAN: Not yet. I’ll call them.

ME: You know what?

ACS WOMAN: What?

ME: I think I’ve realized why we haven’t cured cancer yet.

(I am renting a car at the airport.)

GUY: Here’s your paperwork, sir. Now Alicia will show you where to pick up your car...and she may even tell you a joke.

(Alicia is a young, innocent-looking girl with a long ponytail.  She smiles.)

ME: Hey, I want to hear a joke.

ALICIA: Okay!  Why don’t women wear watches?

ME: Uh...hmmm...I don’t know.

ALICIA: They don’t need them!  The oven already has a clock!

ME: (surprised gurgle of laughter)

GUY: Told you she’d tell you a joke.

ME: (pointing at Alicia) She’s a female, right?

GUY: She is, she is.

ALICIA: Hey, it made you laugh!

ME: I think I laughed because you told that joke.  I can never tell that joke. I’ve gotten too used to my heart being inside my rib cage.

It’s not like I update my Twitter anymore than I do this dumb blog, but you’re welcome to visit me there anyway.

Kurt Vonnegut coined the concept of a karass, which is a group of people who are linked together and collectively perform “God’s work,” even if they’re unaware of it.

I always liked this concept, and I recently thought that I understood who was in my personal karass--the people with the same urination schedule as I do.

There appears to be no other connection to us. There appears to be no other alignment in our spiritual and political worldviews. But I began to realize that I saw them consistently in the men’s bathroom at work--because we shared a timetable in regards to when we needed to micturate.

You could say it’s just a coincidence--that we start drinking coffee at the same time every morning, and that our metabolisms digest it the same way, and it burbles up and sends us to the restroom at almost precisely the same time each day.

But I think it’s a sign that our lives are laced together and joined in service of a higher purpose.

I tested this theory the other day. As Ben and I both faced the wall over our respective porcelain companions, I said, “So Ben...have you felt a sense of...purpose lately?”

He said, “Sure.  Going home and getting drunk so I don’t have to think about this goddamn project.”

I said, “But is that truly what we’re meant here to do?”

He looked at me.  “Listen, if you have a problem with my output, take it up with my vice president. I’m not discussing this with you. And it’s not like you’ve been such a hotshot lately either. Your latest press release misspelled the word ‘actionable.’”

He stormed out.  Rick walked in--someone else whom I almost only ran into in the bathroom.  He took Ben’s place, sighing “Boy, that latte went down good and now it’s going to go out the same way.”

I said, “Rick, is there anything important you need to tell me that could have a major impact on both our lives?”

“Hey, Greg, I’m glad you brought that up. There totally is.”

“What is it?”

“You can shut up for a few minutes. When people talk to me while I’m doing my thing, it completely blocks me.”

I’ve noticed that as a result of these sort of conversations, my karass is beginning to look at me differently.  They eye me when I come in the bathroom, and shift nervously until I leave.  I think it’s because the concept is starting to sink in with them. They realize that we’re not just messing around in here; we’re forming a collective that will carry out a sacred quest.  Tomorrow I’ll encourage all of them to keep drinking coffee just like they usually do, because I feel we will be called upon soon to fulfill our mission. Drink up, boys...drink up.

HE: And I found out that Green Day was playing a secret show at the club to practice for their upcoming tour, so I grabbed my videocamera, went there, and totally caught them playing their new single.  Then I uploaded it to YouTube.

ME: Wow.  Really?  You did that? I’ve always wondered who films those things and uploads them. And here I am, talking to one of them. You’re one of them. You’re one of those guys.

HE: Yeah! It’s great!  It’s already got 150,000 views and, like, over 100 comments by people saying how cool it is!

ME: Don’t you worried about getting sued?

HE: Oh no, the record company and the band don’t care. It’s, like, free publicity for them.

ME: Okay, cool. So can I find this masterpiece by doing a search on YouTube for your name?

HE: Well, no, you need to do the search for my alias, Biff Barton.

I recently went back to Disneyland again for my niece’s fifth birthday, and I realized that I have strong feelings about the “Soaring Over California” ride in California Adventures.

It is probably not the worst ride in the park, but it feels like the worst ride because everyone keeps talking it up.  Friends and family always say “People told me to be sure to ride Soaring over California.” It’s like when people hype some movie as being the greatest ever and then it turns out to star Ben Stiller. I would probably rather do Soaring Over California than, say, Tarzan’s Treehouse or something, but I still feel adversarial to the whole concept.

Basically, you sit in a chair in front of a large projected movie screen and “fly” over various California landscapes:

Oooh! Hot air balloons!  Look out, you might hit one! 

And then they spray you with various scents--for example, you’re flying over a bunch of orange trees and then you smell oranges.  Wow, it’s like you’re really there.  With a bunch of orange trees.  That’s...mind blowing.

Here’s my issue: the concept of the ride is fine. But why waste it on California landscapes? The ride is already in California. If you want to see a bunch of hot air balloons, go ride a hot air balloon. You want to fly over vineyards? They have so many vineyards in California that I’m starting to think that they reproduce naturally, like fungus. Are there really winemakers overseeing all those damn things?

Instead of boring California scenery, they are tons of cool things that you could be flying over.  All it takes is a little imagination. Here are my suggestions for revamping the ride:

A few days ago, on my 39th birthday, I had to go to Best Buy to buy a cable. 

I stood in line but stopped to browse the rack of birthday cards, remembering I had to buy one for my niece. I said “Go ahead of me” to the guy behind me, but he was already lumbering past me.

Even out of the corner of my eye, I could feel his nervous, violent energy. He was looking at his hands, then at the floor, then around himself. His movements were as jerky as a black and white cartoon.

I was surprised to see that he was a teenager--tall and loping, like a basketball player, but young.  He wore baggy pants and a torn shirt featuring some band I had never heard of.  Pumped full of some kind of manic energy, he constantly looked as though he was going to stop, drop, and roll. I thought what any older adult thinks when encountering such an individual: “Must be drugs.”

The young man finished his purchase, then turned to me and said “I’ve been in places like this all morning. They suck out MY ENERGY, MAN.”

I noticed that his wallet, attached to his pocket by a gold chain, was dragging on the ground.  It flopped open, revealing a driver’s license behind fuzzy plastic.  I said, “Hey, careful there.  I think you want your wallet.”

He collected it and stormed out the door. I bought my cable and card, then left. And he was sitting out there on the curb, staring at me.

He shouted at me, “COME TALK TO ME MAN.” I waved at him. “NO NO,” he insisted. “COME TALK TO ME.  COME ON, COME TALK TO ME.”

I headed to my car. “HEY. WHAT ARE YOU, TEN YEARS OLDER THAN ME?  COME ON. YOU’RE SOME KIND OF BUSINESSMAN, AND BEFORE YOU DESTROY THE WORLD AND MY FUTURE, COME TALK TO ME!”

I waved at him again. “Ten years? That’s great!”

He started screaming. “I HATE YOU, YOU #*&*&*!  ALL I’M ASKING IS FOR YOU TO COME TALK TO ME!  YOU @*(&*@&*&!! WHY WON’T YOU TALK TO ME!”

But I was busy calculating in my head. The kid was no older than 18.  If he thought I was ten years older, that put me at 28...eleven years younger than my actual age.

So I want to dedicate this post, Kasey Kasem-style, to that young, drugged out, badly dressed young man. You did me a solid.  I hope you clean up and get straight, and maybe listen to some decent music.  I mean, sure, you’re as loopy as a loon...but does that mean that you were wrong in how you assessed my youthful appearance? I think not.

Thanks buddy!  And in return for the compliment, I will do my solemn best not to destroy your world. 

As I was getting a haircut just now, I was subjected to a Muzak version of Sting’s “Fields of Gold.”

Did someone really stop and say “You know, ‘Fields of Gold’ would be a perfect song to play to people getting a haircut, except that it’s just a bit too noisy. Can we tone it down and make it less intrusive?”

“Fields of Gold” is already played coast to coast in elevators everywhere.  Making a Muzak version of it is like putting Heidi Klum on a diet plan.

I’d like to make a Muzak version of a Muzak version of a Sting song.  It would sound like a low, barely discernible hum. You could do a bunch of them and release them as an album: “Sting Proudly Presents: Inside the Mind of a Coma Patient.”

It’s just possible that it’s time to move out of your current area, when you pick up a copy of the local paper--for example, let’s say yesterday’s Oakland Tribune--and read this headline: “Police arrest 69 people, euthanize 80 birds in cockfighting bust.”

Oakland, you ignorant slut.