I found myself in the Dogpatch area of San Francisco late Saturday night, at a party held in a warehouse that had a bomb-blasted, post-apocalyptic look to it.  Tucked away inside the building, however, was a designer kitchen, a widescreen TV, a DJ, and an amazonian blonde serving gin and tonics so strong that they jumped off my tongue and straight to my head:

This was, in short, a 30something hipster mecca. Ask some of the people what they did for a living and you would be receive answers that would either make you perk up or reconsider your own professional choices or both:

- I’m a fashion designer.

- I’m a photographer.

- I work for Lucasfilm Light & Magic.

I wore an untucked button-down black shirt and black shoes, which is what you wear to these things if you don’t want to put a lot of effort into it. At some point I had to give a final farewell embrace to my inner sophomore-year child and wave goodbye to faded blue jeans and white sneakers, watching them retreat into the mists of time along with my old Thompson Twins records: they have no place in an age where, no matter what anyone tells you, black is always the new black, as these pictures taken by the host prove:

“My God, it’s the standard uniform,” said one of my friends, looking around at the scene.

But it was possible to stand out if one was sufficiently confident with his or her sense of style. For example, you could wear a tie and a cool hat:

Or go ironically retro with cheesy sweater with a yellow collar. All he needed was some horn-rimmed glasses and he could bust out with the Elvis Costello:

Speaking of sophomores, the cute girls can always pull off the young student look.  I mean...talk about rocking the socks. She did way better than the one with an indelicate pair of handcuffs slung across her blouse.  Rather, with her mild aura of academic erotica, this eager scholar could either walk into a Pimps & Hos party or the more obscure yet far more sophisticated form of festivity known as Truck Drivers and Schoolgirls.

It made me think about what kind of hipster outfit I might wear if I ever wanted to give more than two seconds to the way I dress.  I considered my options:

One gradually accumulates a list of reasons to distrust people. One of the highlights of my list is people who give their pets human names.

If you have a dog, you simply can’t call her “Sally.” If you have a cat, you simply can’t call him “Fred.” These are people completely unclear on the concept of “pets.” Pets are not people, and as a result, it’s imperative that you give them names that distinguish them from our own species.

I am willing to grant an exception if I am able to stand over the shoulder of the pet while he or she does your taxes for you. If the animal can pull this off, I will personally shake Reginald’s paw and congratulate him on his ability to find hidden deductions even after several loopholes were closed last year. If your pet fails to accomplish this, you need to look up “opposable thumbs” and toss out that book of baby names until you actually find yourself with a dependent who does not have fur, feathers, or gills.

Please try not to veer all the way over to “Mr. Wiggles,” however.

Sometimes when things aren’t going my way, I like to go clothes shopping--say, at Banana Republic. I make a point to get to know the names of all the people working there. Then I take my things to the cash register. The woman behind the counter says “And did anyone help you today?”

In response, I say something like: “Natasha tried to help me, but she’s pretty creepy. Her eyes kind of fall to the left, like marbles.  I couldn’t say more than two words to her.

“Then there’s Chad. He’s not gay, by the way.  He just said that to get the job.  He knows about as much about fashion as Paris Hilton knows about abstinence.

“I think Rachael wants your job.  She said a few words to me about the new charcoal slacks that the store just got, and then she went out in the hall to text her friend about her scary, harridan boss.

“So anyway, if you’re asking who should get the commission for these purchases I’m making, I recommend you split it among all of them, because they were all equally unhelpful.”

Then I leave the store, walking slowly enough that I can hear the furor start behind me.  The only problem with this hobby is that you generally can’t go back to the store again.  I’ve had to start moving further and further out of my area.  I just got back from a Banana Republic near the Oregon border.

Taking zany pictures in a $3.00 photo booth with his pal Cuba Gooding Jr.

Denying band friend requests on MySpace

Talking with inner city kids about career possibilities in show business

Writing script treatments for sequels to S.W.A.T. and Miami Vice

Chasing after the paparazzi

Finding out what’s really important to him in life (e.g. acting in movies)

Rearranging spice shelf

Enjoying email forwards such as “You know you’re a child of the ‘90s when...”

Thumbing through GMAT study guides

Nostalgically re-watching tapes of old threesomes

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.”