The party was fun but exhausting.  After staying up cleaning until the wee-hours-made-even-more-wee-by-damn-daylight-savings time, I slept late and spent all Sunday wearing slothpants and my M*A*S*H* T-shirt.  Which isn’t as lazy as it sounds; that shirt makes me eminently more qualified to assist with war-related medical emergencies as they arise.  I mean, not as qualified as a medical degree would make me, but I’m not interested in splitting hairs with you.

Here’s the thing, though: if even a third of your guests decide to bring you a bottle of wine, do you know how much wine you end up with?  I’m convinced that Robert Mondavi never had any interest in being a wine entrepreneur.  He simply threw a few parties, looked at the sea of bottles he had collected, and said “Screw it.  I’m going to tear off the labels, slap on my own name, and turn a profit on these bad boys.”

This raises an interesting point. If you go to a party thrown by a wine magnate, what do you bring? You can’t give him a bottle of wine. He’d look at it and snarl “Yeah thanks, I was really short on that. Enjoy the damn party.”

The best thing about Costco is that you can buy a humongous vat of mayonnaise for your party and still have enough left over to fill up your entire bathtub. You can then sit in the tub and pretend that you’ve just defeated the StayPuff Marshmallow Man in mortal combat.

Thanks for all the interest in my romantic life.  It’s sweet.  Unfortunately, this isn’t a very confessional blog and it doesn’t delve too deeply into personal matters.  Why?  For one, I’m no good at it.  There’s tons of bloggers--many of whom favor me with visits to this site--who handle that kind of thing much better.  I love reading their stuff and I have no desire to emulate it.

There’s also professional reasons.  I use my real name on this page, and it’s eminently searchable through Google.  Not that I’m afraid of discovery by my peers--on the contrary, almost everyone in my small department keeps a blog.  I’ve occasionally printed out drafts of work-related posts, shoved them in front of my superiors, and asked “Can I publish this?” Every single time they’ve read it, laughed, and said “Sure.” I also once extended this courtesy to a member of my family. 

Still, I go light on the personal stuff and heavy on the snarky comments and interminable drivel.  It’s all fun and games until someone loses a job.  Or offends a real life friend.

Except today.

Because, you know what?  Screw it.  Rules are made to be broken.  I’m taking today’s post to pull back the curtain and shine a bright, probing spotlight on key highlights of my checkered romantic past.  It’s a hard and truthful look at the workings of my soul.  It discusses many things I’m not proud of doing--but I still did them.  And you, my disembodied Internet friend, deserve to know all about them.

But I’m serious.  Go no further if you’re faint of heart or disinclined to truly know what evil lurks in the hearts of men.

Are you ready?

Let’s do this thing.

Birth.
I fell in love for the first time 30 seconds after I was born.  The nurse who delivered me had cascading blonde hair and luminous green eyes.  I looked at her smitten--until she smacked me on the butt.  My illusions shattered, I was immediately saddled with a lifelong phobia of nurses.  Even today, I can’t watch Juliana Margolis on ER or the “Helloooooo Nurse!” character on Animaniacs without experiencing symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress syndrome.

Elementary school.
You may have read about this one on the news.  I organized a cult of girl scouts with a single mission statement: the worship of me.  I was too young to experience any real sexual feelings; it was all about acquiring mass quantities of girl scout cookies.  The situation exploded into violence as the Attorney General ordered in the militia, causing me to experience additional Post Traumatic Stress whenever I see a person who occupies this position.  (Although in the case of John Ashcroft, it turns out that most Americans have the same reaction.)

Junior high.
A three-year crush on my algebra teacher was reciprocated to the point that she was on the verge of leaving her husband and children.  However, the sordid affair ended in tears when I refused to recognize that a number followed by “i” meant an imaginary number.  “That seriously makes no sense,” I said.  She retorted, “Well, ‘i’ means ‘ignoramus’ in your case.” It eventually came to blows and we had to be physically separated by the principal and several members of the school board.

High school.
Unfortunately I don’t remember anything about this period.  I was kidnapped by a gaggle of sex-starved nuns, drugged, and held prisoner.  I suspect this was an eventful four years though, because even today as I receive the usual spam email such as “Invest in Nigeria Pipeline!” and “Mortgage Rates are at All-Time Lows!”, I also see numerous subject headers such as “Are You My Real Daddy?”

College.
No romantic entanglements of any kind.  Too busy founding, organizing, and leading Monty Python Society of America, my life’s crowning achievement.

Graduate school.
Student teacher for several freshman composition courses.  My innovative teaching strategy consisted of forcing selected female students to remove an article of clothing whenever they misuse a semicolon or confuse “that” and “which.” Eventually fired from position--not sure why.  Probably related to my insistence on a neo-historicist reading of Emily Bronte, or my belief that all the works of Shakespeare were actually written by four women and a midget.

Last week.
Temporarily achieved perfection in both professional and personal lives by playing multiple roles of marketing communications guy, web logger, and ex-Felicity heartthrob Scott Foley, married to gorgeous TV actress Jennifer Garner.  Enjoy life of riches, luxury, and Hollywood hot tub parties. Perfect world shattered when Jennifer reads “Geese Aplenty,” sees flattering comments from female bloggers, and forces a separation.  Now spiraling down into vortex of anxiety and despair, I spend nights in my living room with the lights off, opening up can after can of tuna fish and muttering, “You are all my children now.”

Hey, you know what?  It was great getting all that off my chest.  I’m glad you could bear with me, and hopefully you’re not too upset or shocked or anything.  But it was pretty difficult being that serious.  From now on I’m going to keep things light.  Still friends?  Still friends.

Sometimes children can improve a little upon their parents’ behavior.  Take the issue of strangers bearing salvation.  Whenever those young men in suits on top of bicycles came riding up our long, curving driveway, my father would be ready for them.  If he was in a good mood, he would simply suggest that they leave before he called the police.  “This is private property,” he would remark conversationally.  “And I can easily get my gun.”

As an adult, it turns out I don’t have to worry about this.  I live in a building that’s locked up tight.  You need two keys and an elevator code just to get to my floor.  And after that?  You fight a large plant made of snake tendrils, do battle with life-size chess pieces, and solve a deadly riddle.  (You think I’m kidding, but my building association has already filed a suit against J.K. Rowling for ripping off our blueprints.)

But if people started banging on my door Sunday mornings, I wouldn’t handle it the way my father did.  I wouldn’t threaten them.  I’d slip in some red contact lenses, smear some uncooked ground beef on my face, and then swing open the door: “Hello, my brethren!  You’re right on time.  The sacrifice is over, and now begins the ritual of blood.”

I respect my father’s views, but I simply believe in the correct application of people skills.

I love James Bond, and one of things I love is that the good guys and bad guys are so polite and courteous. They dress in dinner jackets and play poker and drink champagne for hours and hours before deciding to kill one another. Even at the end they follow the Miss Manners handbook to the letter: “The game is yours, Mr. Bond--now pardon me while I faint, as my lower intestines appear to be sloshing onto the floor.”

In real life it’s not like that at all. It’s “Godless heathen” this and “Bloodthirsty tyrant” that. And there’s absolutely no gentlemanly sparring before sending in troops to fight horrible battles.

I’d like to propose that the leaders of the world take a little time before declaring hostilities. They can play a game of cards or go skeet shooting or something, and slowly take each other’s measure. Then if they’re still ticked off, they can settle the matter like civilized people--using laserbeam deathtraps and exploding wristwatches.

Grownup: Go to bar.  Drink Guiness.
High school: Hang out at 24-hour Denny’s.  Eat pancakes.

Grownup: Have dinner with parental and sibling units.
High school: Have dinner with parental and sibling units, but less of a thrill; you eat with them every night of every week.

Grownup: Make cocktails.
High school: As a result of looking 12 years old, don’t even get carded in market checkout line--just laughed at.

Grownup: See cool, poorly distributed indie movie like City of God.
High school: Stuck in small town. Stuck in ‘80s.  See Short Circuit starring Ally Sheedy.

Grownup: Go on a pleasant hike using woodsy, gorgeous East Bay trail.
High school:  No hiking; lacking requisite inner peace.  Full of angst and turmoil.  Sit in room and listen to The Smiths.

Grownup: Do chores that improve home and car.  Feel good about oneself.
High school: Do chores that improve parental units’ home and car.  Feel tired; consider unionizing.

Grownup: Instant Message a friend who lives very far away, have fun conversation.
High school:  Internet not invented yet.* In order to “instant message,” must board plane, fly across country, commit breaking and entering, sneak up, yell loudly into friend’s ear: “Hello!  LOL!  How R U?”

*Emoticons only possible using elaborate paper mache constructs and felt markers.

What’s with all these corporate franchises that use “hut” in the title? Pizza Hut, Sunglasses Hut. Americans can’t relate to this; we live in nice houses and apartments. We’re lucky if we know from Jabba the Hutt.

Sometimes I like to joke here at “Geese Aplenty.” Sometimes I kid.  Sometimes, on rare occasions, I even josh.

But there comes a time when joking is bad.  Wrong.  Inappropriate.  And the most important time? Ironic Video Joke #10 in the rental store.

You know what I’m talking about.  How many times have you heard a friend make an Ironic Video Joke before finally deciding on a real option?  How many times have you done it yourself?

“Let’s rent Corky Romano.”
“Oh I know, let’s pull an all-nighter and check out the first season of Dawson’s Creek.”
“I’d really like a Kevin Costner film festival.”

This is quality comedy.  Millions of people have shared a laugh at such harmless tomfoolery.  But as a point of social convention, it’s imperative to recognize that Ironic Video Joke #10 is where this good natured funning passes the boundary from whimsical to annoying.  Double digits is where you begin to risk life and limb.  If you cross this important boundary and chortle something like “Quick, let’s reserve our copy of David Spade’s magnum opus Joe Dirt,” don’t be surprised if the other person grabs you by the collar and shouts:

“Enough!  Can we get past the self-referential, winking irony that is the hallmark of modern society?  Is it wrong to admit that we want cinema to help us feel?  To connect with real emotions?  Are we so intent on distancing ourselves from our humanity with postmodern abandon that we can’t bring ourselves to say that we genuinely want to rent Akira Kurosawa?  Orson Welles?  John Hughes?  Please, please, I implore you--let the video title that next escapes your lips not be in an ironic throwaway, but rather a title that you actually might want to rent and view!”

“Resident Evil.”

“Damn you.  Were you not listening?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Oh.”

Of course now you have a different problem altogether, laced with its own set of social minefields, which may require its own post at a later time.

License plate: Ms 2ude
Your ‘tude may help you enjoy
Your new voodoo curse.

I saw a sign recently advertising “Aikido for Kids.”

No frickin’ duh it’s for kids, Einstein. Why do you think they call it “AiKIDo?”

Otherwise it’d be “Grown-Up Fu” or something.

Many Sunday mornings I can be found in Gaylord’s, a coffee shop on Piedmont Avenue.  It’s a hip little mom and pop place staffed by people with colorful hair and multiple piercings.

On the block directly adjacent to Gaylord’s, in full view of its patrons, is a Starbucks.  There’s little hair coloration there and even fewer piercings.  A lot of briefcases, though.  And palm pilots.  And laptops.

I don’t get involved in the whole “down with evil corporations” thing.  (Except those Bechtel folks and maybe Dolly Madison.  I don’t trust Dolly Madison. She looks warm and nurturing but serves up cavity-inducing desserts to impressionable children?  I bet she also tried to eat Hansel and Gretel.) I frequent Gaylord’s for two reasons: the layout is more open and sunny, and they make a killer cafe au lait. (Or “Cafe Ole’!!!” as the staff shouts whenever they serve one up.) I don’t take sides.  Heck, I often go to Starbucks during the work week. 

But after staying in Gaylord’s for an hour or two, surrounded by punks and goths and grad students reading Frantz Fanon and Noam Chomsky, while the speaker plays Cat Power and Deathcab for Cutie, the vibe gets to you.  You begin to sneer at those Starbucks people through the window.  You seethe with self-righteous discontent.

When you get up to leave, caffeine buzzing in your soul, you have an overwhelming urge to wave a sign in front of their door.  I don’t know what the sign would say--maybe “STOP STARBUCKS FROM KICKING HELPLESS KITTENS” or whatever they’re accused of doing these days.  Or maybe hassle the people sitting inside: “Did you enjoy your homogenized beverage?  And did you pick up a wonderful CD sampler of World Music Classics, handpicked by Starbucks marketing executives to ensure an authentic multicultural experience?” Or failing that, maybe just moon them all.

If you read about me being arrested for public indecency some day, you’ll know that I didn’t make it off Piedmont Avenue before the buzz from the Cafe Ole’!!! wore off.

The famous French/Belgian scientist, Menage Viagra, dropped his suitcases.  They hit the carpet with a muffled << PORN >> sound, causing a bottle of poison marked “XXX” to fall out. 

“Let me get that for you.” Breathless and sweating, due the cabin’s 110 degree temperature, the hot stewardess picked up the bottle and handed it back to him.  The bottle of poison was for use in a scientific experiment, but even so, it was barely legal.

In fact, the girls who worked with Viagra avoided it.  Sometimes he wished those girls would toughen up a bit.  Like the time they had difficulty learning how to use a webcam to share scientific data.  In frustration, he had shouted at them: “It’s EASY.  Webcam.  GIRLS!”

Acknowledging the flushed stewardess, and accepting a virgin daquiri with a cherry twist, the scientist smiled and said “Thank you.” But his mind was on his daughter’s financial aid assistance for a special private school for girls (erected in 1969).  The application they had filled out together seemed to throb in his memory, mocking him with its first two questions: DESIRED FIRST YEAR TUITION:  FREE SEX:  FEMALE

Still, his daughter was vying for a cheerleading scholarship, which helped her chances; they had ironclad academic standards but very loose cheerleader rules.

Viagra sighed, and fiddled with a photograph of his cat, Entendre.  It was such a beautiful snapshot of the pussy that he was going to have doubles made.

He turned his mind back to his work.  “It’s been a long journey of serious scientific discovery, academic research, and profound intellectual labor, but--” He smiled hopefully--"We’re nearing the climax.”

There’s an outside chance that I’ve seen every episode of “Saved by the Bell.” (The original class, not those poseur “New Class” kids with the token Screech.)

My eyes welled up a bit the first time I saw “Somewhere in Time” starring Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour.

My eyes welled up a bit the first time I saw “Robocop” (the part where all the cops turn against him and start shooting him and it’s just very sad).

I not only settle for the path of least resistance, I settle for the path that lets me sleep until noon.

I once had a dream where I was dressed as a superhero, and I was strolling up and down in front of other superheroes solemnly intoning: “I trust we’re all going to be extra careful on patrol tonight.  Now more than ever we must protect the citizenry.”

Girl drinks are tasty and they have cute colors.

My high school prom date (junior year) threw up on the highway because I took the turns too fast on our way back from a nice dinner.

Put “Achy Breaky Heart” on the jukebox and there’s a better-than-average chance that I’ll burst into song.

Even if there’s perfectly good food in the house, I find it almost impossible to resist the clarion call of a frozen pizza--the gross kind that bleeds greasy orange sauce.

Despite the universal female disdain for “tighty whities,” I always feel as though boxer shorts are the first garment one dons on the way to assembling a full-fledged clown suit.

One of my favorite pontificators on quotidian existence, Dan, wrote about how he likes a particular squeaky door in his workplace because it sounds like a duck.  He recommends that his readers find something trivial but amusing and absurdist in their professional environments that provides comfort and solace during hard times.

I have a little something like that.  A Vice President of my department, who is no longer with the company, once noticed that the job I perform is completely different than my official job description, since my job radically changed after I started doing it.  She asked me to write up a new description that reflected my actual duties.

So I did, and at the end of the document I put:

Additional qualifications:

Equal parts dog and cat person

Must be able to yodel

Skilled at necromancy

And she approved the whole description without reading to the end, and Corporate HR never read to the end, and now it’s part of my official job description, and it’s sitting in my file, and sometimes when I’m having a hard day, this gives me joy.

I’m thankful for eagle-eyed people like Abby who spot the pop culture monstrosities that I overlook.

She wrote:  “Starbucks sponsors the Independent Film Awards. Allow me to pick out the two keywords in that sentence in order to make the ten-thousand-spoons-when-what-you-really-need-is-a-fork deliciousness crystal clear. Starbucks. Independent. Yeah, that’s what I thought they said.”

You’d think I’d be satisfied with that brilliant slam on Alanis Morrisette; but no, I can’t put the item out of my mind.  It’s clear that I won’t be able to exorcise this demon until I make a dumb joke about it.  So here goes:

“I’m sure we’re all looking forward to the My Big Fat Non-Fat Cinnamon Latte Award.”

Hey.  I really do feel better.  Now I can go outside and play.