I posted a while back about talking to a guy who got aroused during a spa massage, and ever since this site has been deluged with search terms like “guys getting aroused during massages.” This is clearly a national epidemic, and it also confirms my suspicion that it’s really no big deal--it proves that professional masseuses are used to seeing this and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. They probably feel bad when guys don’t get aroused.  “Was I too forceful?  Was I too timid? Should I not have asked if this was like the ones he used to receive from his mother?”

It also makes me realize that man, a lot of guys are pretty much sluts. A little hand-to-skin friction and they’re ready to raise the roof beam, carpenter?  I don’t want to ride in a crowded elevator with that demographic.

But it worries me that there’s guys who won’t get a massage because of this phobia, so I thought I’d offer up some tips on how not to be aroused during a massage. Mind you, I have no experience with this whatsoever.  I don’t get aroused during massages because I’m too busy thinking things like “My butt is very very close to complete exposure, and it’s big and white like a spinning disco ball and it might accidentally cause planes to land.” This sort of mental digression holds my libido in check just as surely as if I had stumbled upon a skinny dipping Antonin Scalia.

Regardless, a lack of subject matter expertise has never stopped me from offering up unsolicited advice. So here are my tips:

This is a typical exchange at the annual Tahoe trip I usually take with my friends:

- So, Greg, are you up or down?

- Down two dollars.

- Two dollars. Right.  And that was from--?

- Well, I blew a buck at the penny slots…

- And the other dollar?

- ...the Simpsons pinball machine.

The fact is, I don’t like to gamble.  It’s not a pleasurable experience. Part of the fact is that I always lose, which is likely because I believe I’m going to lose. I am not especially religious or superstitious, but I do believe that our attitudes and perceptions create the world in which we live. So if I think I’m going to lose at a card game, I will lose.  If I expect Adam Sandler to create bad movies, then he will.

Watching those slots spin into place is not a feeling of joy. It’s more like a tight, tense feeling of fear, such as when you wake up after a night of drunken excess and realize that the hooker named Laverne ran off with your wallet and car.  You know that feeling as well as I do, and it’s no bed of roses.  Plus, have you realized that slot machines are now computerized? At least when they used to run on rubber bands and pulleys, you could pretend that you had a fighting chance. These days, forget it.  The computers are only programmed to create jackpots for obnoxious, middle-aged New Jersey housewives named Lucille.

My idea of gambling is sitting at the beach:

Gambling that my friend James’s GoodReads.com recommendation Sacred Games is all that he says it is (so far it’s pretty good)--

Gambling that sunblock 15 is enough to shield my poor Irish skin (umbrella helps too)--

Gambling that two mojitos won’t spoil my appetite for dinner (who cares either way)--

I’m no Kenny Rogers but I consider these feats to be highly daredevil in their own individual ways.

Wakes up next to Suzanne Pleashette

Eats in a diner with friends, 10-second blackout

Kills King Claudius before dying of a wound

Disappears under the ocean with the whale

Realizes he’s a ghost, and so is Nearly Headless Nick

Realizes Hermione is actually a woman

Caught texting to underaged staffers

Loses Florida in last-ditch recount

Sometimes I wish I could instantly vanish whenever a musician sits down to write a song and thinks it would be a good idea to rhyme “fire” with “desire.” Then I would appear behind that musician, slap him on the back of the head, and disappear again in a puff of smoke--leaving the artist to realize that maybe a second draft is in order.

There are a few warning signs that indicate when it may be time to get a new car.

For example, when the car gets dirty, people don’t use the collected dust to make smartass recommendations about washing; instead they write “ABANDON ME.”

When you drive by to pick up a date, she says “Hey, you know...next time, maybe we can just meet on bikes.”

And then there’s the sticker you get after a routine tune up.  You know, the one that says “NEXT SERVICE DUE.” Instead of filling in mileage and a date, the mechanic just scribbles in a frowny face.

Sometimes I think about getting rid of it and buying a new one, but I know what will happen when I try to trade it in.

“Thanks for the great price on my new car.  Now, here’s the car I’m currently driving.  What kind of discount will that get me?”

“Discount?  You just raised the price by a grand.  And give us back the damn fruit basket.”

Eventually I’ll have to drive it to a bad part of Oakland and perform a reverse car jacking--putting a gun to the head of a passerby and scream “GET IN! GET IN!” I’ll keep the gun trained on him until he drives off, and then I’ll run away on foot.

They’ll put out an All Points Bulletin: “Suspect is a white male, last seen breaking into an auto dealership while screaming “I’m free!” Victim was found in a state of shock behind the steering wheel of the perpetrator’s green Civic.  He was carried out of the vehicle and loaded into an ambulance, mumbling all the while “Sure the gas mileage is great and it hardly needs maintenance, but it’s so drab...so boring...so...predictable...”

SAN FRANCISCO, Calif.—According to many hybrid car owners, the thrill of owning a hybrid car is beginning to pale and other avenues are being sought in order to resuscitate the feeling of being about 30% better than other people.

Hybrid cars have been sold in the hundreds of thousands, particularly the Toyota Prius, and industry analysts believe that the desire to “feel good” about oneself and the environment is a primary buying decision for many people.  Or, to put it in common parlance, “feeling smug.”

However, as more and more people buy hybrid cars and the novelty wears off, many owners are beginning to sense an uncomfortable dimming of that feeling of round-the-clock superiority.

“Once you get in the habit of looking down on other people, it’s hard to do without,” said Jake Rossmore, a hybrid car owner who lives in Berkeley, California. “It’s intoxicating. And now that I’m feeling less and less self-satisfied about my hybrid car, I’m finding myself in a bit of a life transition.”

Other hybrid owners share Rossmore’s fears.  In fact, several online communities have sprung up in which individuals exchange ideas about what could replace the hybrid as a mark of their collective arrogance.

“Ideas are tossed around such as carefully disposing of cooking oil or advocating for neighborhood speed bumps,” says Edgar Sweeney, one of the forum webmasters.  “But then the dialogue quickly degenerates into arguing and name calling. The fact of the matter is, I suspect that most hybrid owners don’t have much in common other than their cars. If you remove that element they don’t seem to like each other very much.”

One thing that everyone agrees on is that the problem isn’t going away.  According to some industry analysts, smugness levels have decreased by as much as 65% and continue to drop at a precipitous rate. This has led to a feeling of desperation in the community.

“Maybe we could all sell our cars at once, wait a month or two, and then buy them again,” Rossmore suggested. “That might be way to bring back the good old days.  I’m going to go online right now and post that suggestion.”

Yippee kay yay muchacho.

Yippee kay yay big doody head.

Yippee kay yay mother who engages in a loving, consensual act with her life partner.

Whoa nelly.

Golly!

This weekend, I received my second offer from a female friend to go look at open houses with me if I ever get around to buying a home.  I find it interesting that I’ve had so many volunteers for this. Personally, the only time I ever walk through strangers’ homes is when I’m wearing a ski mask and carrying a bottle of chloroform. But apparently there’s a whole element of humanity--perhaps predominantly female?--that enjoys visiting open houses even if they’re not on the market to buy a house.

I am glad to have the help.  I’ve noticed that when you visit open houses as a single male, people treat you differently. Ahead of you, the homeowners are saying to the young couple: “It was great to meet you!  I think you’ll agree that the energy in our home is perfect for rearing little children who will be named after you and carry your genes through private school and ivy league secret societies!  Okay, bye now!”

And then they turn to you, look at you up and down, and exclaim “Hello there!  Have you seen the back yard? It’s perfect for burying victims once you’re finished with one of your serial killer rampages.”

My friend suggested to me that if the homeowners connect with the couple on a personal level, they may even be willing to be more open to negotiating the price--because sentimentalism clouds their judgment and they think “We really want this nice couple to have our house.”

Which seems like another excellent reason to have a female companion along for the ride. Let’s say that my friend and I were talking to the homeowners.  I could furtively scan the room and look for photographs, drawers, and open closets that might be able to arm us with information and give us an edge:

“I see you went to Aruba on your honeymoon. We did too! It was lovely!”

“Ha ha! We also have that wonderful framed saying, ‘God Bless this Mess’ on the living room wall!  It is to laugh!”

“Oh look over there! What a coincidence--we use French ticklers too!”

Since I manage two women directly and work with many others, a co-worker sent me this article, which gives advice on how to mentor one’s female employees.

After reading it, though, I feel as though it wasn’t necessary to send me the article.  I am already following most of its advice. For example:

“Be frank. Many male managers feel uncomfortable talking to a female employee about issues like dress code, but don’t back away from it.” This is so true! But I have no fear of addressing the issue head on.  I often pass by my female employees and say “Hey, babe, this ain’t no truckstop.  Dress for success not to be undressed, capiche?”

“Don’t worry about her crying.” What wonderfully non-sexist advice! But of course, I don’t worry about her crying at all. I do sort of become concerned when she clutches at my leg and refuses to let me walk out the door, though.  Sometimes I’ve found myself stuck in one place for hours.

“Let her make decisions about her career.” For the longest time I wasn’t doing that!  But then I said “Okay, go ahead, let’s see what you can do.” And much to my surprise, they totally did fine! But I’m glad this article made that point, because maybe other readers wouldn’t be doing that!  Listen, other managers, I’m here to tell you: let your female employees make decisions about their careers. And also, walk them once a day so they get enough exercise.

“Help women develop the relationships that they need to get ahead.” Oh boy do I!  I just hope Corporate HR doesn’t find out about it.

Anyway, I think it was a good article but completely wasted on me.  I wish people would send me management articles that I can actually use--such as “How to Bypass the Company’s Blacklist so I Can Access MySpace.”

I was talking with a nice married couple about ways we de-stress after work. I said, “I never thought I’d do something like this, but sometimes I go to a spa sometimes to get a massage.  I feel like a California yuppie doofus, but it’s nice.”

The husband said, “Do you get aroused during it?”

I blinked.  “Uh, no. You do?”

“We went once, and yeah.”

The nice, attractive wife chimed in “I did too!”

“What, both of you?”

“Oh yeah.”

She said, “You really didn’t?”

I said, “Well, look, for starters, I just paid a bunch of money. For a cheapskate like me, that immediately kills the mood.  Second, they’re piping in Yanni over the speakers, and that’s like thinking about five straight games of baseball. Finally, everything smells of lavender. So...no. I mean, it’s sensual and relaxing, but...no.”

The wife went out in the living room where other people were talking, and exclaimed “Impromptu poll!  How many people have went to a spa and been aroused by the massage?”

I heard some excited talking which seemed to indicate that she had supporters.

I said to the husband: “So this embarrassed you?  And you haven’t been back?”

He nodded.

I said, “Don’t you think it’s just another day at the office for them?  I mean, they must see that all the time.”

He shrugged. “It just made me not want to go back.”

I think I’m lucky, to be honest. If I was so easily aroused by that sort of thing, I probably would have ended up with a family of six back in high school where we used to give each other massages all the time as part of drama class.  These days I think it would only work if the masseuse dressed up in a Princess Leia slavegirl outfit--that would probably cut through the libido-dampening effects of Yanni and lavender.

But if it happened, frankly, I just don’t see why it’s something to be embarrassed about.  To me it’s like giving a “thumbs up” to the masseuse’s performance. Or, y’know, some other body part.  Plus it’s potentially a money saver. If you’re showing such tangible gratitude for her work, doesn’t that eliminate the need to leave a tip?

She: I just got out of a frustrating four-year relationship that went nowhere.

Me: I was in one of those once. I called it “high school.”

I’ve been reading a book by Daniel Pink called A Whole New Mind, which posits several theories with which I vehemently disagree.

One of them is that society is wearied by a constant onslaught of information, data, and media, and is now on a quest for meaning and personal fulfillment.

I must contest this statement.  Any society that currently features a hit song called “Lip Gloss” by Lil Mama is not on a quest for substance and meaning.

This hip hop song tackles the hot button issue of lip gloss, and how it makes the wearer look and feel good.

Sample lyrics: “My lip gloss is cool, my lip gloss is poppin’, when I’m at my locker, all the boys keep stoppin.’”

Mind you, this is a hip hop song. In my day, hip hop was about actual societal problems. Drug culture. Gang violence.  H0s in the backseats of limos.  I do not consider this song an advancement in the musical form.

The lyrical refrain goes: “Whachu know about me? Whachu whachu whachu know?”

Well, Lil Mama, I suppose I’d know all about you if I cared to browse Wikipedia.  As it stands, though, I’ll settle for knowing that your very existence belies the notion that our society is interested in profound spiritual matters.

Daniel Pink’s book also posits the fact that this so-called quest for meaning and fulfillment has come, in part, because of what the author terms abundance.  He claims that the prosperity of a material society has made luxury items so plentiful and easy to obtain that it has paradoxically encouraged society to devalue material goods in favor of “beauty and transcendence.”

Except this is patently false. We do not have an abundance of material items.  In fact, when I take a hard look at my life, I don’t see the material items that I long for with every fiber of my being.

Current material items missing in action include:

I ran into Jesus Christ over the weekend and mentioned that it must be pretty cool that you see “WWJD” on bumper stickers all over the world.

“I mean, you’ve been dead for something like two thousand and seven years, and yet all these people have ‘What Would Jesus Do’ on their cars. Isn’t that nice?”

“I hate those things,” Jesus replied.

“What? Why?”

“Let me tell you what Jesus would do. Jesus would not have a bumper sticker on the back of his car. They’re tacky. And particularly on nice cars they really mess with the finish.”

“Huh,” I said. “That’s a good point.”

“Besides, I wouldn’t even be driving a car.  Hello, global warming?”

“Well, what about one of those cute bracelets?”

“Sure, I’d love to wear a bracelet.  If I was a sixteen-year old girl in the year 1955.  No. Tacky.”

“T-shirt?”

“Interferes with the whole flowing gown look.”

“Okay, so what you’re saying is, Jesus would not actually approve of the whole ‘WWJD’ franchise in any way, shape, or form.”

“Bingo. People are supposed to listen to their own hearts and act on their own best instincts, not try to second guess mine.”

“Oh. Cool, well, thanks for clearing that up.”

“No problem, Greg.”

He started to disappear in a puff of divine smoke, but I shouted “Wait!  Since I’ve got you here and all, can you tell me what Jesus really would do?”

He coughed and waved some of the smoke away. “Well, for starters, you in particular might work on cultivating your inner spirit and sense of kindness and compassion towards others instead of surfing inane blogs all the time.  Otherwise your soul may suffer.  Let me tell you: if you go to Mapquest.com and click ‘Driving Directions’ and enter your own name as the starting address and ‘HELL’ as the destination, you may be surprised to find out how short the distance really is, excluding potential traffic issues or unexpected delays.”

“Right.  Okay, thanks Jesus.”

I turned to walk away, but he stopped me.

“Hey, listen, let me ask you something.  What exactly was so hard about the Golden Rule, anyway? No one seems to understand it.  ‘Do unto others as you’d have them do to you’ means not invading countries, not discriminating against people who are different than you, and not killing people in my name.  Unless you people really like all those things done to you, in which case, brother, you’ve got issues. I mean, I called it a ‘golden rule’ to sort of draw attention to the fact that it was pretty important, but it seems to be more of an afterthought?”

It took me a second to realize that he hadn’t asked a question, but rather made a statement. Who suspected that Jesus was an uptalker?

“Maybe you could have called it a Platinum Rule,” I suggested.  “Or maybe used funny colored font.  Or use both capped and non-capped letters, e.g. GoLdEn RuLe.  Kids today love that stuff.”

He considered this. “Those are pretty good ideas,” he admitted.  “I wish I had thought of them a few millennium ago.  Oh well—live and learn.  Or rather, live, die, be resurrected, and learn, although that sounds a little clunky.”

He faded out of view, and I quickly shouted after him: “Also, you could have spruced up some of your big speeches.  For example, when you gave the Sermon on the Mount, instead of launching right into ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven’ you could have started it out with ‘Jesus in HIZZZ-OUSE’!”

But he was already gone, which was for the best. It’s not good form to make people feel bad about their mistakes after the fact.  That’s definitely not WJWD.

BlogBimbo
Theme: Gathering of women who post scantily-clad pictures of themselves in front of bathroom mirrors holding digital cameras.

Most popular panel: “My Father was Mean to Me.”

BlogBohunk
Theme: Gathering of men who constantly post pictures of their abs.

Most popular panel: “My Mother was Mean to Me.”

BlogBotox
Theme: Gathering of people who blog about plastic surgery and/or constantly update their blog templates.

Most popular panel: “Eliminating age lines while Improving Adsense Click Throughs.”

BlogBust
Theme: Gathering of people who don’t really blog but rather post favorite links.

Most popular panel: “Conferences We Recommend You Go to Instead of This One.”

BlogBiatch
Theme: Gathering of people who gossip and make snarky comments about other bloggers.

Most popular panel: “We Could Have Been Dooce if We Had Really Wanted.”

BlogHex
Theme: Gathering of blog wiccans.

Most popular panel: “Where to Find the Best Glittery Unicorn Icons for your Template.”

BlogBreeders
Theme: Gathering of Mom and Dad bloggers.

Most popular panel: None.  The Moms are busy scarfing down martinis and the Dads are Googling old girlfriends.

BlogBored
Theme: Gathering of people who start every other post with “I’ve really had nothing to say lately.”

Most popular topic: “This Panel isn’t About Anything in Particular but we Needed to Fill Space.”

More about Blogher here.  And hell, here’s more about Bloghim.

Things that have given me pause lately:

At the Giants game with my brother and his family, AT&T park went bananas when someone stepped up to bat.  I was told that it was Barry Bonds, whom even I know to be some kind of famous athletic figure:

But after all this craziness, Bonds only hit a single. What’s up with that? I hit a single once back when I played in little league, and no one really cared.  What’s he got that I haven’t got?  Aside from talent.