If the show weren’t already ending this season, I might just have to stop watching “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” Not because I don’t still love the series in its seventh season, but because its star, Sarah Michelle Gellar, is such a yogurt head that it pains me physically every time I read an interview with her.*

It’s not that she’s dumb.  She seems reasonably able to breathe and walk without assistance from others, but her worldview is clearly distorted from being an actress all her life.  She always says something that just makes me want to slap her.  And her latest quirky quotable?  Her explanation of why she’s quitting the show after seven seasons:

“This isn’t about leaving for a career in movies, or in theater--it’s more of a personal decision. I need a rest. Teachers get sabbaticals. Actors don’t.”

Actually, you know what, I retract this entire tirade in progress.  Now that I’ve written down her words, I really do see her point.  Sarah’s right.  It’s so much easier being a teacher than a highly paid actress.

After all, do teachers have to memorize pages and pages of dialogue, fight choreography, and stunts?  Heck no.  They get to just hang out with students all day and maybe correct some homework.  It’s like a working vacation.

And after all, do teachers have to worry about heavy income tax payments or keeping up appearances on a lavish Hollywood lifestyle?  No sireebob.  With an average salary of $45,000, they are spared the burden of all those crushing financial decisions.

And after all, did they offer Sarah first crack at being Daphne in this summer’s masterpice, “Scooby Doo”?  No way.  They went to tons of high school teachers first.  Only after Mr. Baldrick, a physics teacher from North Dakota, turned down the role because he had “too much grading to do” did they finally relent and say, oh okay, let’s talk to that blonde chick from the show with the vampires.

Some of you live in Los Angeles.  If you see Sarah--just give her a slap from me.  All right?  Thanks.

No one appreciates my little gestures of kindness.

I’m aware of the fact that I am--well, let’s put this bluntly--quite a bit cooler than most of my friends and associates. But I don’t want them to feel uncomfortable around me.

So I’ve been walking up to them and saying “I just want you to know: I’m still I’m still Greg from the block.”

To my astonishment, the frequent response is “Shut up you halfwit.” This is what I get for being magnanimous.

1. It’s a great and startling thing to make Helen Jane laugh.
2. It’s a great and startling thing to be old enough to have dinner with someone you’ve known for over twenty years.
3. Second hand, unverified: It’s impossible to sell used Philip K. Dick books on Half.com because coding on the site prevents people from trying to sell porn.
4. There’s a store in San Francisco in which the first half is nothing but bongs and the second half is nothing but gay porn, meaning that some people have a strange idea of what constitutes “getting the munchies.”
5. Apartments don’t clean themselves.
6. Novels don’t write themselves.
7. If you put a Weber starter chimney in a Weber grill and use no-light briquettes, the result is a column of flame so high that Zeus is likely to peer down from Mt. Olympus and snap “Look, I’ve left you all alone for the last several millenia, so do you think you could return the favor and stop burning my ass?”
8. If this upcoming Bay Area evening is even a tenth as gorgeous as this Bay Area day, I retract all the grumpy, cynical posts I’ve ever made on this site.*

*Except the ones I really meant.

Are you in debt? We can help you consolidate all of your finances into one, easy-to-pay bill. You’ll end up paying 95% more interest, but hey, it’s on a single bill, so it’s really convenient. Preferably you are a homeowner, so we can take your hous--er, that is, help facilitate the consolidation.

Have you been in a car accident? Of course you have. You may not have thought it was an accident, but remember when that VW swerved into the lane in front of you last week? The emotional shock probably gave you whiplash. Or worse. In fact, you could be walking around right now with a steering wheel sticking out of your chest and everyone’s been too polite to tell you. You need a qualified lawyer right now.

Do you need a new career? Call Control Technical Beta Institute. Our daytime and nighttime classes can help make you a rocket scientist. That’s right--a brand-new career as a rocket scientist. Help build the rockets. Help land the rockets. Help shine and buff the rockets. You only need to have passed kindergarten to qualify. And if we can’t find you a job as a rocket scientist upon graduation, we guarantee that we’ll find you a comparable one--like, say, assistant to a dental hygienist.

Do you have social anxiety? You need Paxocedrin. It’ll make you laugh. It’ll make you sing. Everyone will love you. You’ll be the life of the party for the rest of your life. (Warning: side effects may include chronic diarrhea, impotence, and tourette’s syndrome.)

I’m not very good at social graces, so I previously had never planned a party big enough to require the use of Evite. Now that I’m planning one, though, I realized something that I didn’t know when I was the one receiving Evites: the organizer of the event can not only tell who has officially RSVPd, but also who has clicked the link and viewed the invitation.

This can be very useful when you run into your invitees. You can say “I notice that you viewed my Evite, but you haven’t responded yet. I guess you’re waiting to see if something better comes along before responding? Eh? Eh? Or maybe you’re just working out your reason not to come? Ha hah.”

You know, having social graces is actually a lot of fun.

Despite the post below regarding singing to the car stereo, I believe a little self-consciousness and embarrassment is good for society.  Take that annoying maxim which is now a staple of email signature files and workplace posters everywhere:

Work like you don’t need the money
Dance like no one’s watching
Love like you’ve never been hurt.

Let’s take those in order.  If I actually worked like I didn’t need the money, I wouldn’t be doing a damn thing.  I’d stare out the window, surf the Internet, and throw spitwads at people.

Hmm.  Come to think of it, that’s not the best example.

Okay, but take the next one.  “Dance like no one’s watching.” I actually do this at home--when no one is watching.  Patrons in public establishments don’t need to see my white man’s overbite or my tendency to scratch myself.

And if I loved like I’ve never been hurt, that means I’m fifteen years old again.  No thanks. I kissed like a broken lawn sprinkler, I couldn’t undo a girl’s bra without the help of garden shears, and I couldn’t find pleasure centers without the help of a private detective.

A lack of self-awareness is the root of many social ills. It leads to people jogging in spandex shorts who really shouldn’t; it leads to the balding combover; it leads to people annoucing a major point by clearing their throat and intoning “Irregardless...” It leads to reality television, for heaven’s sake.

I urge you all to carpe your diems only to a point and stop before it gets annoying.  If there’s any ambiguity about where to draw the line, just ask me.  “Geese Aplenty” is here to help you be just a little more repressed.

I used to get embarrassed when people would catch me singing along to my car stereo. Now I just wink at them. And I feel sorry for them if they laugh in an unfriendly sort of way. The Temptations can tell you the secret of the universe, and they don’t mind if you yell it back to them.

I just wanted to do my usual workout, but Magic Johnson decided to stop by my local gym and sign autographs. The place was packed full of people, most of whom weren’t members.  Policemen were everywhere.  And there were also--I’m not making this up--women in red costumes with gigantic headdresses, walking around the place on stilts.  Women in neon green costumers doing strange dances.  A buffet table with crackers and salmon spread.

Okay, listen up, 24 Hour Fitness.  I want to see only two kinds of people* when I’m at the gym:
1. Obscenely fat people, to remind me of what I fear.
2. Thin beautiful people, to remind me of what I crave.

I do not need to see:
- People on stilts
- Neon-green dancers
And I definitely don’t need to walk over to my favorite machine only to find the seat occupied by a woman scarfing her face with crackers and salmon spread.

*I do not require celebrities, either, unless it’s Naomi Watts leading one of those cardio striptease dealies.

What’s up with President’s Day, anyway?  I think I speak for all Americans when I say that every day is President’s Day.

Regardless of how badly he’s screwing up foreign and domestic policy, he can pick up the phone at any time and say “I’ve got a hankering for baby back ribs and dirty greens.  Send those up immediately.  Oh, and also?  We think those hot actresses on ‘Gilmore Girls’ are linked to Al Qaeda.  Send up their dossiers, and make sure they include phone numbers and turn-ons.”

New rule: if you’re going to have the cojones to remake a good song, you have to have both 1) an iota of talent and 2) an iota of intelligence.

Counting Crows’ remake of Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” is a case in point.  Their bland, lifeless reading of the song perfectly fits with the rest of their music catalog, which is designed for yuppies with stacks of Pottery Barn catalogs and Starbucks charge cards but who are embarrassed of their Phil Collins and Fleetwood Mac CDs, and so they latch on to an equally faceless corporate product that the music industry has deemed “alternative for adults,” and they happily play the entire Crows oeuvre during their Sunday brunch parties where everyone sits around getting smashed on screwdrivers while discussing gentrification ("Isn’t that a kind of tooth cavity?"), racial politics ("Love that Halle Berry") and the war in Iraq ("Oil is no excuse for war.  By the way, did you buy your SUV yet?") while using their palm pilots to beam life-affirming stories from the electronic version of Reader’s Digest back and forth, which--

(Counting Crows interrupts web author’s rant in progress, which is poised to proceed for several more minutes.)

Counting Crows: “Hey.  Dude.  Chill out.  It’s cool you don’t like our music.  I mean, it’s your web site.  But that’s no reason to call us unintelligent.  It’s just a difference in musical taste.  A difference of opinion.”

Oh really?  Let’s examine that hypothesis.  The original Joni Mitchell song has a line that reads:

“Late last night I heard the screen door slam/And a big yellow taxi took away my old man.”

In your version, you changed this line to:

“Listen, late last night, I heard the screen door slam/And a big yellow taxi took my girl away.”

Why the change?

Crows: “Uh...well...the original song was sung by a chick, y’know, and we’re guys, so...well, we didn’t want to be seen as gay or anything, so we changed ‘old man’ to ‘my girl.’ I mean, that’s no big deal.  That happens in remakes.  Like, y’know, Tiffany changed the Beatles line to ‘I Saw Him Standing There,’ since she didn’t want to be a lesbian, or anything.  At least, not in public.”

Yes.  Well.  Are you aware that ‘my old man’ is an expression that often means ‘father’?  So there was no reason to change the lyrics? And that your version doesn’t even rhyme?

Crows:  “Uhhh...”

You completely ruined the song not only with your breathtaking lack of talent, but with a hair-raising combination of idiocy and homophobia.

Crows: “Uhhh...”

I now return to my thesis, which is that if you’re going to remake a good song, you have to be both talented and not be as dumb as a box of hammers.  Furthermore--

Crows: “Hey, we don’t mean to interrupt, but since we’re already talking here, we’d like to remind your readers that we’re about to release a double live CD, which--”

(Crows are interrupted as web author stuffs entire band into nearby In-Sink-erator 2000, a powerful garbage disposal which, ironically, makes a sound very much like afore-mentioned double live CD.)

1. It’s Valentine’s Day.  A time to celebrate love, affection, and tenderness.  The perfect time to see “Daredevil” on opening night and watch a bunch of bad actors in silly outfits beat the living crap out of each other.

2. Label on the “Austin Powers” pinball machine: “Suitable for children of all ages.” When wasn’t a pinball machine suitable for all ages?  Did I miss the Bally’s Porn-o-Rama game?

3. Whenever I go to a concessions stand, all they do is sell me food and drinks.  Wouldn’t it be cool if a concessions stand actually made concessions?  “Listen, sir, you were right about everything you said this entire week.  More people should listen to you.  Also, we’d really appreciate it if you’d take Czechoslovakia--with our compliments.”

4. When movie theater owners die, how are their funeral services scheduled?  Can you attend at 3:30, 5:45, 7:00 or 9:15?

New scientific findings confirm what had previously been suspected: only 4% of the universe is composed of “matter” as we know it.  The rest?  23% is a substance known as dark matter, and 73% is “exotic dark energy.” Scientists know next-to-nothing about either of them.

And yet they’re congratulating themselves over this discovery.  What’s up with that?  I understand priests backslapping themselves at the end of each day, happy to have once again proven the mysterious and unfathomable nature of God.  They’d put themselves out of a job if they held a press conference and announced: “Not only is God’s name Yahweh, but we now know that He lives in Los Angeles, drives a Beamer, and is heavily involved in the textile industry.”

But scientists are supposed to be a bit more precise.  You don’t expect to hear them gush: “We’ve proven that the universe is 96% composed of a substance we know nearly nothing about!  Score!”

Now there’s a grant application I’d like to see.  “I intend to apply all of the scientific discoveries for the last several thousand years, including those of Einstein, Newton, and the guy from that Russell Crowe movie, and I will prove that we know virtually nothing about the material state of the universe.  Requested amount: $10 million dollars.  And some new pocket protectors.”

(I realize that part of the discovery is actually fixing an age on the universe--13.7 billion years old.  Whatever.  It’ll get overturned in a week.  They can’t even figure out the right dates for human evolution, much less all of creation.  One day you see an article that claims modern man first developed tools one million years ago.  The next day: “Scratch that one million thing.  We just uncovered a two million year-old skeleton that was not only buried with crude stone tools, but also several cans of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee.")

But my point--and I do have one--is to plead with every last one of you.  Please do not tell anyone about these scientific findings.

Can you imagine what kind of a world we’ll live in once this information seeps into the general consciousness?

“So did you find out what’s wrong with my car?”

“Not exactly, but we’re pretty sure it’s related to the 96% dark matter that comprises the universe.  That’ll be $1,500.”

Or:

“Mr. President, can you please explain how you expect to revive the economy by helping to balloon the federal deficit?”

“Well, now, I don’t really think we can expect my economic plans to make any sense, now can we?  I mean, 96% of the universe is made of a material that we don’t understand.  You should count yourself lucky that your pants don’t just fall down for no reason.”

“Well said, Mr. President.”

On the other hand, it could also work to my advantage:

“Howard!" We need a rewrite of all the sales materials, and we need it in two hours!”

“Unfortunately, the preponderance of dark matter and energy in the universe will prevent me from meeting that or any other deadline.”

“Gee, I guess you’re right.  What do you propose we do?”

“Well, personally, I’m going to crawl under my desk and take a nap.”

“Well, go ahead.  But be careful, okay?  We live in a strange and mysterious universe.”

If you took all the students who ever fell asleep in Mr. Salem’s class and laid them end to end, they would have been in a much more comfortable position.

1. A long post that reminds you of that Steve Martin line from “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles”: “When you’re telling these little stories, here’s a good idea--have a point. It makes it so much more interesting for the listener.”

2. “And he said LOL!  And I said LMAO!  And he said ROFLMAO!  And I said Why is AOL so hard to use?”

3. “I just had a startling breakthrough with my therapist.”

4. “None of my co-workers seem to care about my thoughts on how technology can assist us in becoming better stamp collectors.  Fortunately, I have this blog.”

5. “Rush Limbaugh can say it better than I can.  Click the link to become enlightened!”

6.  “You BET I have opinions on what will happen at the end of ‘Joe Millionaire,’ ‘The Bachelorette,’ and ‘American Idol’!!!!!”

7. “I don’t think my wife knows about it.  Let’s hope that nobody who reads this blog decides to tell her.”

8. “Captain’s Log, Stardate February, 2003.  I ran into the hot tamale today, and let me tell you, she had her phasers set on ‘stunning.’”

9. “I can’t tell you how much I hate ‘Geese Aplenty.’”

10. A gratuitously grumpy post that slams other people’s blogs.

Add your own!

There are many hats I don’t wear well. For example, the big ten gallon kind that covers up half my face. But also the “home improvements” hat. In particular, I find that it’s dangerous to install new blinds when you know too much pop culture trivia. You end up with an internal monologue like this one:

-Damn it, it’s the wrong kind of screwdriver. I need the other kind...the John Phillip Sousa screwdriver.

-No wait, that’s not it. I need the Herman’s Head screwdriver...no, he was the funny guy with all the split personalities.

-Maybe I need the Murray Head screwdriver...no wait, he was the guy who sang the infectious showtune and ‘80s pop song classic “One Night in Bangkok.”

-Oh right, it’s the Phillips Head screwdriver. The one with the ‘X’ in it. Why don’t they just call it the X-Men screwdriver?

The blinds were eventually installed, but I think I’ve had enough of trying to be Bob Vila. From now on I’ll be Sancho Villa. If something in my apartment breaks, I’m just going to shoot it.