I was thinking that maybe my love life would go better if I went with a completely different paradigm and became a Sugar Daddy.  I started to write a personal ad to that effect. But then I suddenly realized that I’m not rich--and on top of that, I’m kind of a cheapskate.

So I rewrote the ad:

“Economy-minded and fiscally responsible Sugar Daddy seeks eager supplicant.  Promises to keep you in onion rings and gold-toe socks.  Weekly shopping sprees at Target (max $50 per trip).  Will pay for your education--at the University of Phoenix.  Plans extensive, soul-nurturing travel in five mile radius of immediate neighborhood, with occasional long-distance trips to Bay Area suburbs such as Antioch and San Lorenzo.  Window shopping at only the finest stores.

The successful applicant will be responsible for the typical duties that accompany such arrangements, notably clipping coupons, rolling up spare change into coin rolls for exchange at the bank, and surfing Froogle and DeepDiscount.com using a set of pre-designated keywords.  Room and board all included; don’t miss this exception opportunity to obtain the security and stability that you seek.  (Please note: The successful applicant will also be responsible for 1/2 electricity, 1/2 cable, 1/2 DSL, and for providing a bottle of Charles Shaw for each evening’s romantic repast.”

1. Sting boasts to interviewers that he has frequent tantric sex with his wife that goes on for hours.  Is it really something to brag about that you can’t focus enough to get the job done?  Maybe Sting ought to be dreaming less about blue turtles or fields of fire and concentrating more on the job at hand. Where is Entertainment Weekly asking me for the secrets of my two-minute technique? 

2. I want to be clear: I saw An Inconvenient Truth and loved it. I’ve been genuinely impressed how it changed the fundamentals of national debate on global warming, so that the discussion became less about “It’s just one side of the argument” and more about “It’s real; now what do we do about it.” Still, though. The movie rails against the American tendency to consume too much--and wouldn’t that message have been more compelling if Gore, himself, showed a little restraint?

I’m not saying he has to go all Christina Ricci. But saving the world starts at home, tugboat.

3. Everyone wants to know the truth about Britney.  Why wasn’t my phone ringing off the hook when I began to go bald?  Frankly, discussing the matter in public would have been very healing for me.

Ingrates.

Have you seen those frozen crock pot dinners that you can buy in the supermarket? Who buys those things?  Having a crock pot is already admitting that you’re kind of person who would like to sleep twelve hours a night.  Having a crock pot frozen dinner is like saying that after you sleep those twelve hours, you want a servant to carry you around your house on a cot.

How long does it take to chop up the ingredients for a standard crock pot stew, anyway? Five minutes?  Do people who buy crock pot dinners pride themselves on their time management? 

“I’ve saved an average of five minutes a night by putting in a crock pot frozen dinner rather than chopping up fresh meat and vegetables.  With that time, I’ve learned three languages, two martial arts, and the difference between ‘meiosis’ and ‘mitosis.’ But I’m really hoping they make a ‘time saver’ version for busy people like me.  You’d buy the dinner, and twelve hours later it would cook itself, jump down off the stove, leap on to your face, and pour itself down your throat.”

Sharing old pictures of yourself on the Internet is apparently the new low-rise jeans, and God knows I can’t stand to not be trendy.  So here’s a few pictures my folks gave me when I visited them a few weeks ago.

Both of them are from 1983.  This first one is confusing to me because I don’t recognize myself--and not just because I’m surprised to see myself with a full head of hair.  I don’t remember that jacket, that rock, nothing.  But the look?  It is, as the kids say, pure bershon.

My mother says that I always looked bershon.  (Well, she didn’t exactly use that word because she’s not one of the kids, but her meaning was the same.) She says that I hated having my picture taken and made my feelings known about it.  I can confirm this; I remember resenting the camera. But it wasn’t because I was too cool for school. It was because I hated the feeling of my soul being sucked out of my body.

This next picture more closely resembles my mental picture of myself at that age--a scrawny runt who looked like he’d get the crap kicked out of him by a stiff wind.

But I’m less interesting here than my friend Wendy, with whom I’m sharing a birthday in this picture because our families are on a ski trip together.  She’s currently in the foreign service in Afghanistan, and she just got her orders for next year--Argentina!  Buenos Aires in ‘08.  Me, that is.  I’m hoping she’ll be in a good mood and/or not involved in international espionage and therefore can show me around the city.

Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t have taken all the cake for myself.

Like most intellectually lazy overeducated liberals in the Bay Area, I listen to a lot of National Public Radio.  And one NPR program I like is a segment called “This I Believe.” This spot always features some earnest, well-meaning guest speaker going on about some NPR-ish topic like finding peace within ourselves and why people should appreciate whales. 

No one ever asks me to guest host this program, although they should, so here is my own take at “This I Believe.” I’m sure my pearls of wisdom will create such a ripple effect across our social fabric that eventually I’ll be guest hosting “Fresh Air,” cracking wise on “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me,” and also guest starring on Lost, which has nothing to do with NPR but it would be kind of cool.  So anyway, here my “This I Believe”:

Cheap wine tastes better if you pour it into one of those big honkin’ glasses that look all impressive and expensive.

Hybrid cars shouldn’t be allowed in the carpool lane until the drivers get those self-satisfied smirks off their faces.

The more ridiculous a paint color is ("Twilight Fuchsia"), the worse it will look on your wall.

Asking my opinion about the Superbowl is about as productive as having a family counseling session with Lizzy Borden.

Bulk cereal in those big plastic bags is a good buy, except that if you tear where it says “Tear Here” the bag always breaks open and spills on to the floor, thus mitigating some of the economic savings.

The way Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears have handled their 20something careers proves that I really underappreciated Madonna when she was starting out.

Although I still hate most of Madonna’s songs.  “Into the Groove” is okay.

Although I’m glad no one ever said “Get into the groove boy, you’ve got to prove your love to me,” because the only thing I can prove with my dancing is that I’ve got all the rhythm of an epileptic elephant.

People who describe themselves as complicated or multi-faceted are invariably very simple.

Good and evil may be difficult to quantify, but anyone who texts votes to American Idol is morally bankrupt.

Excellent! Now let the offers roll in.

The crowd outside the store where Windows ‘95 was sold for the first time:

The crowd outside the store where Windows Vista was sold for the first time:

On a completely unrelated note, here’s a picture of Kristen Bell, TV’s Veronica Mars, having lightsaber duels with her friends outside of Star Tours in Florida:

I have nothing interesting to say about the pic.  It just pleases me.

VOICE OVER: This is Jack Bauer...and this is the longest day of my life.  Well, except maybe for those last few days aboard the Mayflower when we ran out of food and we threw the bodies overboard and ate each other.  That was pretty bad.  And then there was our first Thanksgiving at Plymouth Plantation, where we not only starved and froze but also no one even bothered to bring any cranberry sauce.  That really sucked.

WILLIAM BRADFORD: Jack Bauer!  I have need to speak with ye!

JACK (putting a piece of driftwood to his ear): Yes, Mr. Governor?

BRADFORD:  Jack, what in the name of our Father are you doing with that wood to your ear? I’m standing right in front of ye.

(Jack puts the driftwood down sheepishly.)

JACK: Uh...right.  Sorry. You wanted to see me, Mr. Governor?

BRADFORD: Yea, verily, Plymouth Plantation is under an Indianist attack.

JACK: Damn it!

BRADFORD: Blasphemy!

JACK: I mean...Golly!

BRADFORD: Yea, verily!  We do not have specific information, but we believe it is those savages, those of the Indian folk!

JACK: I’ll get to the bottom of it, Mr. Governor.

BRADFORD: Yea, verily!  For we cry unto the Lord, and he hears our voice, and looks on our adversity, etc.  Yea, let them which have been redeemed of the Lord, show how he hath delivered them from the hand of the oppressor. Let them confess before the Lord his loving kindness, and his wonderful works before the sons of men--

JACK: Mr. Governor, please shut up.

BRADFORD: Sorry.  Anyway, get on the Indianist thing, will you?

JACK: I’ll pay a visit to Christians Take Umbrage immediately.

(Jack goes to visit the headquarters of C.T.U.)

JACK: Chloe, what do you have?

CHLOE: You dare to use my Christian name, sirrah?

JACK: Chloe, dammit, we have no time.

CHLOE: Okay, whatever.  We don’t know the nature of the Indianist attacks, but there’s an Indian right over there so maybe you should go torture him and find out what’s the what.

JACK: An Indian penetrated C.T.U. headquarters?  There must be a mole!

CHLOE: What mole?  What headquarters? We’re all standing underneath an oak tree.

(Jack goes and tackles the Indian.)

JACK: Speak!  Are you the evil kind of Indian, or the nice kind who tells us how to grow corn?

INDIAN: It’s called “maize,” you assclown.

(Jack tortures the Indian.)

INDIAN: Okay, okay, call it corn!  Whatever!

JACK: That’s not what I want to know!

(Torture torture torture)

INDIAN: Okay, okay! We have six smallpox-infested blankets strategically placed around Plymouth Plantation. You’ll never get to them in time!

JACK: Damn it!

INDIAN: Blasphemy!

JACK: I must go save my nubile young daughter Kim!

(Jack goes and visits his nubile young daughter Kim, who is having sex with a young pilgrim.)

JACK: Kim!  You’ve got to find safety before you’re infected by the Indian-planted smallpox-infested blankets!

KIM: Look Dad.  Don’t you think that you’re just trying to derive mindless suspense and entertainment out of the vilification of the so-called “Indianists”?  That you’re just getting off on the fear and paranoia that we Puritans have of an entire culture of Native Americans, only a small minority of which wish to do us harm? And of those who do wish us harm, none of them have actually managed to pull anything off like plant contagious blankets in the middle of Plymouth Plantation?  And that showing them doing so merely heightens the fear and suspicion of ordinary Indians who merely wish to live a peaceful life among us?  That your whole life is founded on the ludicrous fantasies of a largely discredited right-wing administration?

JACK: ....

KIM: ....

JACK: Dammit, Kim!

KIM: ...right.  Forget I said anything.

1:00 PM BRR CLICK WHIRR CLICK WHIRR

NEXT ON 1624!

JACK: (torturing another Indian) Dammit!  Tell me where the smallpox-infested blankets are!

INDIAN: Well, let me put it this way. You know how you sneezed just now and wiped your nose on that wool thing over there?

Last week I spent several days at a marketing conference. It was okay, but one of the presenters kept repeating one of those in-vogue business clichés that I absolutely can’t stand. He would say “At the end of the day...” before making every point.

I know what people who use this phrase are trying to say.  They’re saying “At the end of the 9-5 workday we will evaluate our initiatives and consider our results.” But I hate the expression because I can’t seem to force myself to think that way.  To me it simply means the end of the real day.  And at the end of the real day, my priorities will not be aligned with anything resembling a 9-5 existence.

At the end of the day, I will not care about leads that our campaigns have lost. I will care about what happens on Lost.

At the end of the day, I will not care about optimization and mindshare. I will care about reclining in my chair.

At the end of the day, I will not care about raising the bar. I will care about raising a glass.

At the end of the day, I will not care about communicating to my team members. I will care that I’m talking to my friends.

At the end of the day, I will run in the hills and see the sun sink like an orange balloon.  I will listen to music so beautiful that I won’t be able to hear it all at once.  I will laugh so hard that my face will crease like a road map. I will wish a pox on people who can only express themselves in words that are dry and dead before they’ve even been uttered.

Yesterday I received an email asking if I’d like to get my fill of “amateur teens.”

This hit a nerve with me.  Our society asks its kids to grow up so fast--way too fast, in my opinion.  This isn’t the middle ages, where girls married at age 13, or the nineteenth century, where boys were sent off to work long hours in a factory.  I think all teens should be considered amateur, and they shouldn’t be asked to take on adult, professional responsibilities until they’ve had a chance to cultivate themselves and finish their pursuit of higher education.

Anyway, that’s just what I think, and I replied as much in a tersely written email back to the gentleman from Romania.

The big uproar in California these days is an idea by Assemblywoman Sally J. Lieber; she plans to submit a bill proposing that California become the first state to make spanking of children 3 years old and under a misdemeanor. Penalties could include child-rearing classes for offenders or one year in jail. This topic is excellent for blogging, because it allows you to use the word “spanking” repeatedly and thus boost your site in Google search results.  My hope is that Lieber’s next proposal will be about building more tall monuments near the state capitol, and then I can talk about how her constituents would like to see more frequent erections.

The problem with Lieber’s proposal is that it’s not going to achieve what it’s trying to do.  When Lieber says “I don’t think parents should spank their children,” what she’s really saying is that “Parents should be better at being parents.” And you won’t achieve that by outlawing spanking. Rather, without this recourse, parents with anger issues will simply find other ways to mistreat their children such as:

I noticed a while back that Feedster had included this site, along with several other blogs that people actually read, in a category called “Life Experiences.” The description for the content channel is “Life Experiences from people around the world to give you a glimpse inside their lives.”

I don’t remember ever wanting to give people a glimpse inside my life.  I don’t even like to give up the subway seat next to me on a crowded train.

But it definitely put the pressure on, because I thought maybe I should share a life experience?  But what could possibly reach the powerful level of finely honed insight that this content channel clearly expects of me?  And then it hit me: the price of ground beef.  I am really ticked off about this.  I read articles about gas prices rising, and I even read something about a worldwide increase in coffee prices. But no one talks about the price of ground beef, although I’ve noticed that it’s edged upwards for several months.  What happened, did all the cows go on strike?

“Look, we’re not asking for more than our fair share.  We get it--you have opposable thumbs, we don’t.  We’re not asking to swap places on the food chain, or whatever.  But there’s got to be a basic concern for our rights as cows.  Nothing elaborate--more grazing hours, cleaner stalls, and cable TV.  Until you deliver, we’re refusing to be slaughtered.”

I’ve done the calculations, and I’ve come to the conclusion that if the price goes up another two dollars a pound, it will actually be less expensive for me to buy, keep, and kill my own cows. I’ve already started making preparations.  And I might even sell them on the marketplace.  Set up a “ground beef” stall next to Safeway, the way those alleged contractors hang out in front of Home Depot and try to do your landscaping.  I do have to work through some marketing questions, though.  For example, if the cows basically spend their time roaming around on the roof of my apartment complex, can I legally package them as “free range”?

Well, anyway, that’s my life experience.  And that felt great.  Thanks Feedster!  And I hope to share more “life experiences” soon!

Have you ever seen a woman after she’s left a relationship that went on for years?  She blinks her eyes as though emerging from a deep sleep.  She looks at her skin and says “How long has it been since I looked at my skin?  It’s like parchment.” She looks at her hair and says “How long has it been since I looked at my hair?  It’s like black coils shot through with silver.” Then she looks at her clothes and says “I don’t know how to dress in this new day and age. I don’t know how to talk to people.  I don’t know what to do with myself when I go home.”

After spending some time trudging through these new sensations, her back becomes bent and her step begins to hobble. When this happens, she tells you that she’s going to find a way back so she can fall asleep again.  It’s like letting go off Eurydice and watching her spiral back into darkness.  Oh, you can try to talk to her.  You can say “You’ve been trying to make it work with him for years, and you end up unhappy.  You end up leaving.  Or he leaves you.  Maybe it’s time to move on.” And she says (or doesn’t say, but says it all the same): “I don’t have the years left to move on.  I don’t know how to dress or talk.  Love isn’t fun.  Love isn’t easy.  If you want love, you have to work.  Work.  Work.  Work.  Work.  Work.”

And you can’t make her understand that she’s glancing at the blurry sides of a magnifying glass instead of looking directly into the center of its clarity.  That fear tricks her into curling up and hunching over her knees when she ought to be breaking open like a shell.  That her mirror is a chattering, mocking portrait of Dorian Gray telling her lies.  That if she was able to backflip outside of herself, like a brand-new ghost doing ecstatic cartwheels, she’d catch a glimpse of herself full in the face and realize that she’s never looked younger.

Some people talk about this or that club as being the best place to party, but I know better. The best places to party are either car dealerships or 24-Hour Fitness gyms. 

I’ve never been in either one of them that isn’t throwing a party.  Balloons. Streamers.  Large, swirling graffiti lettering that shouts “Sign Up Your Friends and Family during our Hawaii Fiesta!” Or “2006 Models Must Go, and We’re Going Crazy!” It revs you up.  It gets you excited.  It makes you think “Now’s a good day to party.”

I know exactly who runs these places.  They’re the party people from high school.  I remember Chet and Brad and Angela and Jessica.  Their houses were always the party spots.  They always had the kegs, and their parents were always out of town. Or they passed out cryptic invitations containing maps to deserted beaches where they’d build a bonfire, hand out beer, and party all night long--or until the cops came and closed them down.  These are the people now running car dealerships and gyms.  I often expect to meet them whenever I’m there, but I know that they’re not necessarily at my local dealership or gym.

In many ways I envy them.  There’s a cliché that’s also one of the genuine secrets of life, which is “Find what you love and do it for a living.” And I think that these people have, for the most part.  They get up every day and party.  They hang up streamers and blow up balloons. This is what they’re good at, and this is what they get to do.

But I also know that there’s a dark side.  Because if you party as much as gyms and car dealerships do, doesn’t that mean that the thrill eventually fades?  And aren’t the people who run them sort of like addicts, constantly seeking to uncover the same rush that they felt in high school?  And I worry that when they get up in the morning, feeling the throb of a hangover scrape against the back of their eyelids, they press their fingers to their temples and think to themselves: “Today’s the day that I really party like I did when I was 18.  Today’s the day it’ll be just like I remember.  It’ll be a total rager. Everyone will be rocking and rolling. I’ll call it my ‘Toyotathon,’ and every sale will come with a completely free set of floor mats.”

I reconsidered my plans to buy a home after I tried out one of those “How much house can you afford” calculators:

SINGLE OR DUAL INCOME?.....Single

LOCATION:.....San Francisco Bay Area

OCCUPATION?.....Marketing

SNICKER—NO REALLY, OCCUPATION?.....Marketing

WHATEVER—OKAY, INHERITANCE?.....No

SUGAR DADDY AND/OR MOMMA?.....No

DO YOU SELL CRACK?.....No

ARE YOU PLANNING TO GO TO COURT TO GET MONEY?  e.g. ARE YOU KEVIN FEDERLINE?.....No

DO YOU HOLD THE PATENT ON DICE?.....No

OTHER INCOME SOURCES?....Change found in the street

PRESS SUBMIT TO SEE HOW MUCH HOUSE YOU CAN AFFORD:.....

Congratulations!  Based on the data that you entered, you can afford:

A SHOEBOX

PLEASE NOTE: Actual size and cost of shoebox may vary for your particular situation.  May require significant upkeep, maintenance, and/or wool socks.

PRESS SUBMIT TO BE CONNECTED TO A LENDER:......Bite Me