People tell me that I’m getting more curmudgeonly as I get older, which I take as a compliment. I mean, have you ever met one of those people in their eighties who are upbeat and pleasant all the time?  I look at those people and I can only assume that for eighty years they just haven’t been paying attention.

But sometimes a gesture of human kindness pierces my heart and cuts through all the negativity I’ve accumulated as a result of Darfur, the growing gap between the rich and the poor, global warming, and Adam Sandler.

Such was the case this weekend.  My friend Meredith knows some crazy people, and one of them threw a birthday party for her fiancée. What was the nature of said party? We were given movie cameras and told to write, film, and edit a movie in around six hours.  The Red Vic theater in San Francisco was rented out at midnight to screen all of the movies to a bunch of tired and (by that time) mostly drunk filmmakers.

Needless to say, this was a pretty stressful enterprise; we only had a few hours of light to capture all the footage. And most of our film consisted of exterior shots, as it was decided to do a parody of Run Lola Run (one of my favorite movies, as it happens) full of in-jokes and references to the birthday boy and his fiancée.

So anyway, I was trying to take some shots of Lola (Meredith) running.  We were running out of time, and we were all tired.  I needed a shot of her running down her apartment stairs, but we were in a cramped courtyard and I was having a hard time setting up the tripod.  I backed up against an apartment door and shouted “Okay, give me a second, I’m trying to get you into frame--”

--and suddenly, the door behind me opened.

I turned around, and an elderly lady smiled and gestured to me.

“Come in, come in, shoot here.” She had an accent--I couldn’t quite place it. Swedish?

It was a foggy, chilly day in the city, and I could feel the heat spilling out of her well-warmed apartment.

“Oh!” I said. “Okay, it will just be a second. Thanks!”

And I backed up a few feet.

“Come in more, shoot, shoot,” she said, urging me on.

So I backed up even more and planted my ass in her hallway and set up the camera and got the shot.

I turned around and said to my savior, “You’re very kind.”

“Ah, of course, of course,” she said, and then she shut the door.

Now, admittedly, this was Meredith’s neighbor and probably knew her by sight, so she didn’t think she was opening her door to a psycho killer or anything. But still, this lady was warm and peaceful in her apartment on a cold November day.  She disrupted her tranquility so a bunch of shouting morons could enter her house and finish a ridiculous movie.

So, of all the things I’m thankful for, topping the list is anyone who is willing to open the front door, place trust in humanity, and let people get the shot they need:

(And isn’t Meredith a dead ringer for the real Lola?)

Happy Thanksgiving.

ME (excitedly): How can they talk about remaking Poltergeist? It’s perfect the way it is. I don’t care if the special effects are dated.

COLLEAGUE: You’re probably right.

(Young, female co-worker walks by)

ME: YOU! What do you think of Poltergeist?

YOUNG FEMALE CO-WORKER: Older guys?

ME: ....

YOUNG FEMALE CO-WORKER: Why are you asking what I think of older guys?

ME: Not older guys. POLTER GEIST.

YOUNG FEMALE CO-WORKER: Whatever.

COLLEAGUE: Greg, tell me again how it is that you still have a job.

In complete defiance of all those over the years who have complained that I never write about anything important, here is a ripped-from-the-headlines discussion of the Oxford comma, also known as the “serial comma.” The summary of the discussion is as follows: anyone who uses the serial comma is one of the Chosen; anyone who doesn’t is a mutton head.

The serial comma is where you use a comma after the last item in a sentence to designate a list. For example:

“Greg blogs about wheat, toads, and potstickers.”

Here’s the same sentence without the serial comma:

“Greg blogs about wheat, toads and potstickers.”

Note how that sentence is completely confusing.  Why does “wheat” get its own little special space of the universe, while “toads” and “potstickers” are jammed together like frat boys in the back of a pickup? Are those two items somehow connected? Is there a cosmic meaning that one should derive from their breathless union?

Of course not, and that’s why each item needs a comma.  Those items are begging for a comma. If they don’t have a comma, they don’t look right. You stare at them and you sense something wrong.  Something out of place.  Something that strikes at the core of their identity. Like Lindsay Lohan with an alcohol monitoring bracelet.

The problem is, there’s no consensus. Most grammar books will say “Whatever, you can do it both ways.” However, before you shrug off responsibility for the issue and embrace the ambiguity, let’s take a look at two people who dislike the serial comma.  You will see why it is not wise to align yourself with their camp.

1) Lynn Truss, author of the best-selling grammar book Eats, Shoots & Leaves.  Despite the title of her book being an homage to the confusion caused by the lack of the serial comma, she writes: “My own feeling is that one shouldn’t be too rigid about the Oxford comma. Sometimes the sentence is improved by including it; sometimes it isn’t.” Whatever. Truss is from Britain, where the serial comma is typically not used, so her opinion is worthless.  The Brits weren’t that wishy washy about taking over the world, were they?  The sun no longer rises and sets on the British empire, and it’s all because of their highly problematic handling of the serial comma.

2) Some jerk at a job interview several years ago.  I was applying for a communications position at PeopleSoft, and one of the first questions my interviewer asked me was my opinion on the Oxford comma. I said I used it; he said that he didn’t. And what happened a few years later? Oracle bought PeopleSoft and fired most of its employees.  And why? Opinions vary, but I believe it’s because PeopleSoft didn’t use the serial comma.

Now, to be fair, a Wikipedia article on the subject does give some interesting examples of confusion that is created by the use of the serial comma.  But these examples are flawed.  Here’s one of the sentences used to show the potential problems of the serial comma:

“To my mother, Ayn Rand and God.”

The meaning of this sentence is clear. This is obviously a list of three. But if the serial comma is used:

“To my mother, Ayn Rand, and God. “

The commas appear to be setting off “Ayn Rand” from the rest of the items, suggesting that the writer’s mother is Ayn Rand.  This serves to confuse rather than clarify the sentence.

My response? Give me a break, Wikipedia; Ayn Rand was a windbag who wrote character speeches that literally went on for sixty pages.  If you were Ayn Rand’s child, you would not be dedicating things to her; you would be in therapy. Therefore, it’s impossible to read the sentence to mean that the writer’s mother is Ayn Rand, which serves to prove my point that the serial comma is always correct and its omission is always wrong.

As we head into another election season, it will be the responsibility of each and every citizen to choose allegiances and make decisions. To do that, you must first find out who you are. I mean--who you really are. Are you a proponent of the serial comma? Or are you one of the rump-fed ratbrain maggot pies who seek to destroy civilization as we know it? Be the former.  Join us.  We are waiting for you.

We are happy, hopeful, and enlightened.

It took me a while to recognize why Rowling’s outing of Dumbledore bothered me.

It’s not because a mega-billionaire author turned around and categorized a major character in a children’s series as gay.  I think that’s hilarious. I’ve never seen an author explicitly validate an entire sub-genre of slash fiction devoted to her work.  Can you imagine Gene Roddenberry standing up and saying “Yeah, you know, you guys were pretty much right about Kirk and Spock. There was a reason they always got themselves mind controlled so they could wrestle each other with their shirts off.”

No, my problem is the justification that Rowling gives.  She talks about Dumbledore’s youthful friendship with the dark wizard Grindelward, and remarks “He met someone as brilliant as he was and, rather like Bellatrix, he was very drawn to this brilliant person and horribly, terribly let down by him.”

I take issue with this reading because it continues a tradition of pointing at close, affectionate male relationships and basically saying “Yeah, that’s just suppressed gayness.” It has the effect of bringing back a different kind of homophobia by saying that anything involving deep emotional bonding between men can’t be affection for its own sake but rather subconscious sexuality.

I, myself, have suffered from this sort of viewpoint.  My friends can tell you that I’m the single worst hugger on the planet. I don’t really hug people; I kind of hang off them like a jacket that’s three sizes two small. It’s even worse when I hug my male friends. Sure, I can take responsibility for my own hugging inadequacies, but when you have a society that says “close male friendships = gay,” it doesn’t really help one to improve one’s hugging prowess.  I need society’s support in my attempts to hold my male friends close without suddenly being the love that dare not speak its name.

There are many famous male friends who shared close, intimate emotional relationships without being gay.  Lewis and Clark. Mason and Dixon. Penn and Teller.  Shatner and Spader.

When I was sixteen, my friend and I got drunk behind a supermarket. (We were subsequently arrested by a pair of Mormon cops, but that’s another story.) We had been a bit estranged prior to that evening, but the alcohol helped remove our emotional inhibitions and we admitted that we cared about each other and that we were, in fact, friends. And yes, we hugged.  Shouldn’t men in our society be able to do this without the influencing factors of alcohol or, worse, Mormonism?

Don’t get me wrong: Rowling is the writer and I completely accept her interpretation of her own character. I’m even entertained by it. I’m simply saying that her justification for the interpretation raises its own problems because it allows very little space for non-sexual male bonding.  To my mind, homosexuality isn’t simply a byproduct of male intimacy but something that specifically denotes sexual attraction.  Well, that and also an extremely intuitive ability to accessorize.

I spent most of last week in Boulder, a trendy college town in Colorado, and got a chance to scratch off one of my life to-dos: try a hookah.

My life to-do list is still pretty long--I still haven’t gone on a safari, had a constellation named after me, or taught traffic school to a classroom full of Maggie Gyllenhaals--but hey, one down is one down.

It cost about $10 per flavor, and I think we chose something like strawberry and watermelon. Sure, those flavors sound pretty weak, but they don’t sell hashish over the counter yet.  And I like them anyway because they taste good and make you forget that you’re turning your lungs into a toxic waste dump.

There are other good aspects of a hookah:

You can talk in a throaty voice and give instructions to Alice:

“One side of the mushroom makes you grow larger; the other one makes you grow shorter.” Jesus, no wonder I never liked mushrooms.

The other thing I learned--or re-learned, to be more accurate--is that I’m too old to hang out in college towns, hookah bars being the exception to the rule.  This is what you tend to realize when you look around and wonder how all these kids got past the guy checking IDs, and realize that they are, in fact, probably 21.  At least, in dog years.

Posted by Greg at 10:56 AM on 10/21/07

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I bought and used my first cordless drill today!  It is cool because you can wave it around and use it even though it’s not plugged into the wall. Which may be self-evident from the term “cordless drill,” but it’s one thing to say it and another thing to experience it.

I’ll tell you one thing, though--I sure am glad I read the instructions before using it.  It says “Do not operate this equipment while under the influence of alcohol.”

Wow!  I sure am grateful to the brain trust that came up with that nugget of zen wisdom.  I only hope it’s not too late to log on to Evite and cancel my “Do Tequila Shots While Helping Greg Install His New Window Blinds” extravaganza!

On a not-entirely unrelated note, I’d like to mention to my friends that yes, I put together the wine cabinet myself.  And yes, that is not necessarily good news considering that I got a B minus in shop because my wooden elephant looked more like an aardvark (I lived Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club*).  And yes, that does mean you shouldn’t make any sudden moves in my living room. Really, it’s a wine cabinet that’s a lot like that cute freshman girl that we all knew in college who was from a strict upbringing and away from home from the first time--you put some wine inside of it, and it starts trembling, and shaking, and basically feeling a little fragile.

*Minus the bit with the flare gun.

My communications person returned from maternity leave, so I excitedly asked the right people what I needed to do to ensure she was reinstated in the company system with regular paychecks and whatnot.

I was told: “She’ll need a note from her doctor.”

I said, “What do you mean? She wasn’t sick. She was having a baby.”

“Being out on maternity leave is technically a kind of disability.”

“Okay, I can sort of see that, but I don’t see why she needs a note from her doctor.”

“The note from the doctor would simply say that she’s able to return to work and no longer disabled.”

No wonder we can’t achieve equal rights across genders; women can’t even have a baby without suddenly becoming candidates for the special olympics. In a just society, there’d be a derogatory term for men who see a pretty girl and then have to walk around with their sweaters pulled down over their jeans, but no, that’s just business as usual and then there’s disabled women having children.

I said, “Look, she’s already back at work, and a cursory glance will reveal that she no longer has a baby inside of her. The baby left her body, much like a kidney stone being passed or the miracle of life or something--one of the two.  Furthermore, she can prove it. She’ll be very happy to show you the baby pictures.  It’s a really nice looking baby.”

”We need a note from her doctor.”

My vote is that we change this system. In order for it be just a bit more high school than it already is, I advocate that pregnant employees deliver a note before they go on maternity leave. But the note should be from the woman’s mother, not her doctor. It should say “Please excuse my daughter for the next five months or so; she will be unable to complete her projects on account of passing on the family genes.” And failing that, I think the least we can do is refer to mothers-to-be--those lifegivers, those childbearers, those goddesses who soldier on for months and suffer terrible pain in order to give us sons, daughters, nieces, nephews, grandchildren--as differently abled.

I have a friend who keeps a journal with her at all times.  In the journal, among other things, is a list of life lessons--many of which I have memorized because I find them highly amusing.  Over the weekend, she told me that she had recently ignored one of the life lessons and deeply regretted it.

I said, “‘Never make eye contact with a mime’?”

She shook her head.

“‘Never rub an Irishman’s head from behind unexpectedly?’”

“No.”

“‘It is surprisingly difficult to convince a stranger to accept a cupcake?’”

She shook her head.

“Oh.” I suddenly knew which one it had to be.  “‘Don’t make out with someone you knew from college. They will act all strange about it afterwards.’”

She nodded sadly.

“It could be worse,” I consoled her. “You could have done that and caught the attention of a mime.”

There’s an article in today’s New York Times about the rise of “iCrime"--people being targeted for their shiny, easy-to-steal, status symbol iPods.  I’ve actually thought about this before.  I sometimes jog through dicey areas of my city, and I’m often lost in my own thoughts as well as lost in a song.  My iPod is strapped around my arm.  I’m not especially fearsome looking. Wouldn’t it be easy for evil people to trip me to the sidewalk and strip me of my musical companion?

However, then I realized that my car had a “Protected by Auto Theft Alarm” sticker on the driver side window, and that gave me an idea. And now I don’t worry about being mugged at all.  I jog in peace, thanks to my iPod’s new decal: “Contains More than One Track by Oingo Boingo.”

I’m pleased to announce that I’ve joined the ranks of professional photographers.  I’ve given the widely known and well-regarded travel site Shmapp!! permission to use a photo of Eyre Square in Galway, Ireland that I took last year.

The photo can be seen here.  Note the photo credit that reads “Photo: Greg Howard.” It’s important to note that this is not the jerk who plays with the Dave Matthews Band or the nimrod who did the Sally Forth comic strip. This is me.

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking “Gosh, Greg, I love Schmapp!!  I never use Lonely Planet or Rick Steves. When I plan a trip, I go straight to Schmapp!!  It is the travel site of choice for both young and old! It’s a household name!  Clearly, you have made it as a serious artist in the realm of photography and other photo-related subjects.  And yet, I can’t help but wonder--is it possible that I can match your feat?  Is there a way that me, a lowly amateur photographer, could ever aspire to reach the heights of your artistic triumph?”

And my response is, be of good cheer. It is possible that you, too, could have some random photo of yours selected to be on Schmapp!! just like I have. But in order to do so, you must follow several important rules:

Sometimes I’m told that I don’t like to try new things in bed. But that’s just not true.  Sometimes I sleep on my side. Sometimes I sleep on my stomach. Sometimes I stack up the pillows behind my neck. Sometimes I elevate my legs using a highly sophisticated array of matching blankets and throw cushions.

Clearly, comments like this simply suggest people projecting their own feelings about themselves.  And it forces me to say, hey, no need to blame me for your own lack of adventure. Come join me way out here on the precipice, where I like to say that if you’re not on the edge, you’re taking up too much room.

I’ve started taking some management classes. My department is growing, and I figure it’s possible that some of my standard techniques for performance management ("A drunk otter could have done that project better") and team building ("Another round of shots for the table") may start to be less effective going forward.

I try to keep an open mind about these things. I don’t just assume that a management class will be a froofy timewaster where they put clay and colorful pipe cleaner toys at each person’s chair so participants can be “playful and creative” during the instruction.

But when I showed up a class about effective leadership strategies last week, I found clay and colorful pipe cleaner toys at each person’s chair.

Abraham Lincoln was a great leader. Do you know one of the strategies he used to become one?  It involved a studious avoidance of colorful pipe cleaner toys.

Anyway, the real problem came up around a half hour into the session.  The instructor--who was so cheerful and chirpy than I’m sure she had several felonies on her record--asked us to read a few paragraphs about what makes a good leader and then underline the parts that we liked best.

The problem with that exercise is, it implicitly assumes that we’re going to agree with everything in the text.  But I came across this sentence, and it stuck in my craw:

“Genuine leaders are not in it for themselves; they have a sincere desire to create something larger and better than what they can create alone.”

I thought about that for a moment.  Then the instructor asked us to share the parts we had underlined. I raised my hand.

“I don’t think it’s true that genuine leaders aren’t in it for themselves. Everyone’s motivated by self-interest. But good leaders know that the way to achieve their personal ends is to build something that’s larger than what they can do on their own. So I’d revise this sentence to read ‘Genuine leaders are in it for themselves, and they have a sincere desire to create someone larger and better than what they can create alone.’”

Silence.  You could have heard a pipe cleaner drop.

The associate instructor said dryly, “That’s deep, Greg.”

The chirpy instructor gave her best Stepford Wife robotic head jerk and said, “Well!  I think I need another cup of coffee before I can follow all that!”

I threw up my hands. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying.”

And that was that.  But hey, I don’t come into a class to shut off my brain; I’m going to engage with the material. And personally, I don’t want my manager to be a selfless person; I want him or her to recognize that leveraging my skill set is the best way to achieve large amounts of money and power.

Selflessness is great--when you’re clothing and feeding poor children in Calcutta.  It’s not as useful when you’re deep in the belly of a for-profit business.  Oh, and you know what poor children in Calcutta might also like?  Colorful pipe cleaner toys.

Medical assistant who conducted my pre-interview: “Now, be sure to call this number if you get sick over the week and you want to warn us about a potential problem with your donation. For example, let us know if you come down with small pox, malaria, or republicanism.”

--

Lying on the cot, about to give blood:

NURSE: You forgot to answer this question.

(Hands me questionnaire--blank question is “HAVE YOU RECEIVED MONEY FOR SEX IN THE PAST YEAR?”

ME: Oh, the answer is definitely no.  All I’ve received is “Nice try but please try harder next time.”

---

While the blood is flying out of my arm in record time:

NURSE: You’re halfway done already!

ME: I have strong veins!

NURSE (correcting): You’re a bleeder.

ME: Okay, that’s the other way of looking at it.

---

Helpful Tip!  If you forget to bring the newspaper and you don’t feel like checking your blackberry, you can spend the recovery time wondering whether the Borg could assimilate the Cylons.

In picking out paints for my place, I was excited to see that Home Depot could scan a color swatch and match it up to the types of paints they had on hand. My friend had helped me pick out coordinating colors, and they were nice, warm colors like “Burnished Cedar” or whatever. So I used the paint scanner to scan in those selections and see what kind of counterparts the store could give me. The results came back completely out of left field, something like

HOT PINK

What the hell was that?  I figured the machine was hiccuping, so I tried re-scanning. It came back something like

CRUSHED SKULL GRAY

And again:

BLOOD AND GUTS BURGANDY

What’s the point of a machine that makes your life easier if its output has absolutely no connection to reality?  The idea of the machine is fantastic, and it looks impressive--but ultimately, it doesn’t work.  It’s the equivalent of giving someone a flashlight and calling it a stun gun.

This is just like the time when I entered my face into a Celebrity Lookalike Generator and found out that I resembled a child star, the guy who invented the lightbulb, Keyser Söze, and Queen Latifah.

These are things that sound good but are not actually functional--much like one-size-fits-all socks, E-Z wall hangers, and representative democracy.

Technology blows.