In looking back on a classic of literature, George Orwell’s 1984, we can observe that Orwell was very poor at predicting the future. I mean, the book is hundreds of pages long--and there’s not one mention of Cyndi Lauper.

1. I don’t have a glass eye, a wooden leg, or an iron lung.

2. James Bond did, in fact, live to die another day. I was so worried that he wouldn’t survive his latest adventure!

3. My job doesn’t entail phoning strangers to say something like: “Hello, I’m calling on behalf of the Church of Obscure, Semi-Latter-Day Saints. Would you care to make a donation, or would you like to go directly to Hell?”

4. When I see my family tomorrow, there’s only a 60% chance that they will mention that I used to pronounce “cannon” as “canyon,” or that I had Nancy Drew books along with The Hardy Boys.

5. The cops didn’t bust in and arrest me when I tore that “Do Not Remove This Tag” tag off my mattress.

6. I will likely watch the upcoming “Daredevil” movie instead of going to the office.

7. Drinking coffee has nothing to do with hair loss, because otherwise I’d have to make a difficult choice. As it stands, there’s no scientific way to give up genes cold turkey.

8. It’s apparently true that when they left the White House, Clinton’s people removed the “W” keys from every keyboard in every office.

9. Pauly Shore’s ten minutes of fame are not only up, but he hasn’t even managed a fizzly comeback along the lines of Gary Coleman.

10. I have sources of strength, both internally and in regards to my friends and family, and I think I’ve become better about not squandering them.

Happy Thanksgiving.

“Hot Baud,” the post that’s a little further down the page, has been provisionally accepted by San Francisco’s KQED radio as a “Perspectives” guest commentary. I’m going to visit the station and tape it. I suppose whether it actually airs will depend upon whether I can control my Tourette’s syndrome in the recording studio. (I was ahead of Kelly Ripa for the “Regis” gig until the Tourette’s kicked in.)

I will post its scheduled airdate. If you live locally and you don’t listen to it, you will start receiving large stacks of pizza from Domino’s. They will not have been paid for. You have been warned.

Documentary filmmakers always complain that mainstream cineplexes won’t show their films, and therefore nobody goes to see them. Hello guys--your subject matter might have something to do with it too. Homeless this and poverty that. Do a nice, objective, cutting-edge investigation of sorority initiation rites and I’ll go see your movie, as will everyone I know. You’re welcome.

I remember staring at the monitor of my father’s Kaypro computer while the green cursor inched its way across the screen, like a phosphorescent snail with a faintly glowing track. 300 bauds of modem power pushed it along. It didn’t seem possible that the cursor could move any faster; its pace seemed preordained, as though written in ancient runes. I liked to watch it. Its speed was fine with me.

When I was a little older, the cursor moved at 600 bauds. This irritated me: if it was possible for the cursor to move faster, why didn’t the computer people make it do that before and spare my family the hassle of buying a new modem?

When I saw the cursor move at 900 bauds, a window opened up in my mind. The cursor’s speed was open to negotiation. It wasn’t preordained; it could be enticed, encouraged, cheered on. You could trick and taunt it, make it deliver information more quickly. You could hop on its back and kick it until it giddyapped forward.

Then the changes came in a torrent. The molasses-slow bulletin boards became the Internet. Computer screens danced with color. Phones shrank. Modems tripped over themselves in an effort to make one another obsolete: 1200 baud, and 28K, and 56K, then ethernet connections and T1 lines.

And on some days, I find myself almost painfully impatient. I want the data to crackle and spit; I want it to be explosive; I want it to shoot through me like steam through high-pressure hoses. I want to just wish it and data will appear; I want to react to information like a synapse, zipping from one byte to another. I want to know and see things before I even know I want to know and see them. I know now that there’s no end to what I can learn and see, and no limit on how fast it can happen.

Then there’s other days. On those days, I sit on a bench in the Piedmont Rose Garden. The smell of the plants is so strong that it’s almost a color. People shuffle around me. It doesn’t seem possible that they could move any faster; their pace seems preordained, as though written in ancient runes. I like to watch them. Their speed is fine with me.

If you want to find out what the Internet is saying about you (or at least people with your name), you can enter your sobriquet into Googlism. Here’s a representative sample of Googlism’s results for “Greg Howard”:

greg howard is one of the keystones to dave matthews band’s existence
greg howard is the man
greg howard is a true stick aficionado
greg howard is the national jukido director and holds kokondo karate black belt as well as high rank in jukido jujitsu
greg howard is “doing it for the kids”
greg howard is not someone to laugh at
greg howard is an especially appropriate celebrity for a hillbilly appreciation day show
greg howard is working with a californian company to market possum
greg howard is going to be in my area in the beginning of december
greg howard is still waiting for some answers for his mom

Sorry Mom. I’m working on those answers--honest.

Anti-smoking lobbyists are outraged at the new James Bond movie. Apparently, Bond is seen puffing on a death stick for the first time in 13 years. They are worried that this will set a bad example for his impressionable young fans.

In related news: James Bond still kills lots of people in gruesome and violent ways.

If someone asks for your opinion, intone:
“We’d better take that offline. I’m not sure we have the bandwidth here to explore the multiple synergies at work. I’ll be able to give you a download later.”

If someone asks you to do something, reply:
“That’s outside my project scope. We’re not drilling down into action items here; this is a high-level meeting for exploring ways to add value. We can develop a list of my deliverables later on a go-forward basis.”

If someone disagrees with you, snap:
“Your proactive stance is excellent, but you’re missing the 5,000 pound gorilla in this paradigm. Reassess the value proposition and formulate your output based on new variables.”

If some clueless person starts yammering on about something off topic, interject:
“That’s a priority item, but it wasn’t included in the meeting agenda as it appears on your Microsoft Outlook calendar.
(when they stare at you blankly)
“Seriously, shut up. I’m about to slap you.”

If your manager thinks you’re not talking enough, suddenly stand up and exclaim:
“It’s time we pushed the envelope until it’s outside the box!”

The best survival tactic of all, of course, is to bring your wireless-enabled laptop into every meeting and surf the web while you’re pretending to take copious notes. If someone asks you what you’re doing, simply explain that you’re brushing up on politics.

I’m deathly afraid of coming into a lot of money, stashing it in a savings account, and then never being able to access it because I can’t remember my mother’s maiden name.

I can forsee daily trips to the bank: “Hi, I’d like to withdraw my money.”

“Fine. Your mother’s maiden name?”

“Wachowski.”

“Nope. Try again tomorrow.”

What’s up with those cars that have “Special Edition” labels slapped on them? “Special Edition” only means one thing to me...a cool DVD with lots of extra features. So do these cars come with commentary tracks?

“Well, we all got together and decided to make a car. The first thing we wanted to do was create the right set of wheels. So we did some bluescreen tests with people from Lucasfilm, and we created some miniatures, and eventually we captured the right look. Our production designer complained about us running over budget, saying ‘It’s not like you’re trying to reinvent the wheel.’ And we’re like, ‘Well, yeah, we are.’

“Our chief mechanic had the idea of including a dashboard, a process we were familiar with from last year’s work on the Honda Accord EX 2001. And it worked beautifully on this project as well.

“Oh, and we also came to work drunk a lot.”

You know how you can take a walk and see things along the way that tell you “Stay away--do not touch or go near for any reason”?

For example:
- A raccoon in broad daylight
- A growling dog with bristling fur
- A coiled rattlesnake

The movie poster for “Half Past Dead” (with the tag line “The Good. The Bad. And the Deadly.") is a lot like those things.

How do I know that America will eventually lose its status as the world’s preeminent superpower? Easy. We’re bland and fearful, and our Twinkies prove it.

Here’s what I mean. When I was a child, Hostess had a product called a “Chocodile.” This was nothing more than a chocolate-covered Twinkie, but it had its own distinct brand identity. The mascot was a talking crocodile, and the tag line was “It takes a while to eat a Chocodile.”

The Chocodile is extinct today. In essence, Americans couldn’t deal with the additional complexity that the Chocodile represented. It posed too much of a challenge to their delicate palettes. They reacted with dismay: “Sponge cake, yes. Creamed filling, by all means. Chocolate on top? Whoa, slow that horse down, hoss!”

As far as augurs of receding world influence go, it may not be as dramatic as India’s 1857 mutiny against the British colonists. But it’s up there.

My mother: “Jennifer Love Hewitt’s problem is that she chose to use the ‘Love’ as part of her name. It showed everyone that she’s incapable of making good decisions. And it’s all been downhill for her from there.”

Everyone’s excited about the new Lord of the Rings movie, “The Two Towers.” No one seems to care about the new James Bond movie, “Die Another Day.”

I’m here to tell you that you should be caring about Bond, and only Bond.  But don’t take my word for it.  Let’s see how the two franchises stack up on the key issues:

Cute girls.
Bond: Has cute girls.
Lord of the Rings: Has cute girls, but they have pointed ears.

Weapons.
Bond: Lots of gadgets and guns.
Lord of the Rings: Swords and weird jewelry.  When you’re staring into the face of evil, what should you be holding--a Walther PPK or a crummy magic ring?

Bad guys.
Bond: Has bad guys with cool names like Goldfinger and Jaws.
Lord of the Rings: Main bad guy is named Sauron, which is notably unscary.  It’s right up there with “Francis” and “Oswald” in terms of names that strike terror into your heart.

Christopher Lee.
Bond: Had Christopher Lee as villain in only one movie, “The Man With the Golden Gun.”
Lord of the Rings: Has Christopher Lee as villain in all three movies.  Okay, so LOTR wins one lousy category.

Credibility.
Bond: Ian Fleming, author of the original Bond novels, actually worked as a secret agent.  Cool.
Lord of the Rings: J.R. Tolkien, author of the Lord of the Rings novels, was a Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford.  He wasn’t a hobbit, or an elf, or a Wizard.  He wasn’t even a lousy orc.  Which author do you trust?  I thought so.

Explosions.
Bond: Lots of explosions.
Lord of the Rings: No explosions.  Gasoline hasn’t even been invented yet.

As you can see, this isn’t a matter of personal taste or subjective opinion; it’s pure, unadulterated logic.  See you at Bond’s opening night.

Men sleep in consistent, regular patterns. Women, on the other hand, save up sleep. They store it like a battery. They tuck it away like squirrels do nuts.

Why? Because when they begin a relationship, they can draw upon their sleep reservoirs. They can stay up for countless hours without feeling the strain.

This always comes as a surprise to men at the end of a long date. I don’t just mean dinner and a movie; I meant an entire day and evening and a large chunk of the night. They both talk, and discover things about each other, and do things together, and finally around 3 a.m. they may decide okay, time to fall asleep.

He hits sleep like a ton of rocks; she fidgets uncomfortably. She looks at the ceiling. She glances at her watch. And finally, around 5 a.m., she jabs him with her foot until he stirs awake and mumbles: “Uhh...what’s wrong?”

“Something’s on my mind. Something important.”

“What is it?”

“I was wondering...what were you like in kindergarten?”