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.

I’m not going to follow the herd and watch the Michael Jackson interview that’s airing tonight. I refuse to support an activity that I consider bizarre, trivial, and completely irrational. I’m spending my Thursday evening the way I always do:

Climbing to the roof of my apartment building, lying on my back, and watching the sky for flying saucers.

I don’t mean to offend my friends who read this blog--all I’m doing is expressing my opinion here--but I really hate those quizzes in which you find out “What kind of _____ are you?” People email them to me all the time.  Co-workers ask me if I’ve taken them yet.  Oh right.  I’ll get right on that.

I have nothing to learn from them, as I think the following examples will help illustrate.

“What Kind of Friends friend Are You?” I am neither Ross, Rachel, Chandler, Phoebe, or Joey.  Why?  Because every once in a while, I talk to someone who isn’t white.

“What Kind of Superhero Are You?” I already know this.  I’m the kind of superhero who briefly appears in a Saturday morning cartoon in the ‘60s, and then is resurrected decades later by the Comedy Channel for an ironic, postermodern late night talk show.

“What Kind of Different Strokes Character Are You?” Never seen the show in my life.  What’s that?  You have?  Well, one of us is going to feel slightly less regret than the other when we’re lying on our deathbeds.

“What Kind of Harry Potter Character Are You?” Well, let me put it this way.  Do any of the Harry Potter characters use their powers to freeze people in place, take off their clothes, and then run away laughing?  No?  Then it’s safe to say that we have highly divergent philosophies in regards to the proper use of magic.

“What Kind of Dungeons & Dragons Character Are You?” Oh sure, I’ll take that qu--oh wait, I think I hear your mother calling.  Okay, bye bye!

“What Kind of Star Wars Character Are You?” I already covered this in an earlier post.  I’m Han Solo dammit.  And I don’t need no dumb, lame quiz telling me I’m R2-D2.  Do you hear me?  I’m cool, not a crummy robot.  Damn you quiz.  I hate--

Uh...anyway.  I think I’ve made my point.

Why the high degree of turnover in the pizza delivery business?  I suspect it’s because the guys quickly find out there’s no sex involved.

They probably complain to their friends: “I figured I’d have it made with that blue vest and red bowtie.  But the chicks just take the pizza, pay me, and shut the door.  This is so not what I signed up for.”

I’m a pretty easy going, laid-back guy.  But at the present moment, I am possessed by a spirit of vengeance that makes Charles Bronson look like Mahatma Gandhi.

Here’s what happened.

Part of my job is maintaining friendly contact with my company’s larger clients.  When they’re happy with the outsourcing service we provide, I can use their goodwill for promotional vehicles like press releases and customer case studies.

I’ve had particuarly good luck with the controller at our largest client.  (I’ll call her Jill.) Jill loves our service, and I’ve worked with her to create sales collateral and a web site testimonial.  She’s even scheduled to speak with two of our executives at an industry trade show.

I’ve never met or seen Jill.  But she’s polite, courteous, and professional.  Our conversations had consisted 100% of the usual pleasantries: “It’s so nice to find new ways to work together” and “This campaign will benefit both our companies.”

I wrote an article for a trade magazine about my company’s relationship with Jill’s company, so last week I emailed her and asked her for a photograph that the editor needed.  I didn’t hear anything for several days.  And then, yesterday, I received an email from Jill with a single sentence: “here you go”

The email included a jpeg attachment. The file was called “centerfold.jpg.”

It seemed strange to me.  But heck, maybe it was the centerfold of Jill’s family album, or something.  I clicked on the attachment and opened it.

A very tall blonde woman beamed at me. She was completely naked.

But her pussy kept the picture from being obscene.  By which I mean to say, the naked woman was holding up a large, gray cat.  The feline barely concealed the woman’s naughty bits.

Three possibilities sprang to mind:
1. Someone commandeered Jill’s email account.
2. Jill is psychotic.
3. Jill has a sense of humor, but a highly inappropriate one.  I mean--she doesn’t know me.

I emailed Jill back, treating it as a joke: “There is absolutely no doubt that this picture would liven up a boring trade publication, but maybe you have a more professional shot?”

I received a reply almost instantly: “What do you mean?  That’s the oldest profession in the world!”

I stared at the message in stunned disbelief.

I told the story to my supervisor, the director of marketing. His eyes widened.  They bulged.  He snapped, “Get her on the phone.  Do you realize that she’s scheduled to present at a trade show conference with our executives?”

I froze.  The director and I were picturing the exact same thing: Jill stands with our executives in front of hundreds of people, discussing the benefits of HR outsourcing, and suddenly decides to perform a strip tease.

So I called her.  And, predictably, she could barely talk.  She was laughing too hard.

Fine, so it’s a joke.  But as far as client/vendor jokes go, it verges on the sociopathic.  Just as I was about to ask the delicate question--"What made you think that you could send that to a relative stranger?"--Jill explained, “I had the idea for the joke and Ben said you wouldn’t be offended by it.”

Ben?  Our CFO?  Ben did this?

You have to understand.  Ben is a great guy.  I like him.  But he’s the only executive who is never seen in the office without a suit and tie.  He’s buttoned-down and businesslike.  He never raises his voice.  He always toes the line.

Ben did this to me?

Ben said to me later, “I simply told her that you weren’t easily offended and that you had a good sense of humor.”

Which is true.  I’m rarely offended.  I like a good gag.  I’m a good sport about things.  Oh, and also? I’m possessed by the living spirit of vengeance.

I own up to being gotten.  I freely admit it.  Never in a million years would I have predicted that my quiet CFO and a client contact I’ve never met would join forces to collectively rattle my cage.  But although Jill has diplomatic immunity, being a star client and all, Ben is fair game. And I have already plotted my revenge (with the marketing director providing the idea).  It may take a while to get around to pulling it off, but that’s okay.  I can wait.

After all, Khan said it best in that masterpiece of late Western civilization, “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.”

“Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Ever wake up from a sleep so deep that you confused the hell out of yourself?

When I awoke this morning, I was mumbling something like: “This isn’t just a fun little charge over San Juan Hill, Mr. President. The Roosevelt administration is in serious trouble.”

A millisecond later, I had no idea what I was talking about.

Some married friends of mine had a one-year birthday party for their baby today, and I was an invited guest.

Not having any kids myself, I often forget society’s shorthand for various life events. For example, my hostess came towards me and blurted out, “I’m expecting!” I had to think on my feet here and decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing. But she looked radiant and her arms were opened wide to embrace me, so I assumed she meant a second child--as opposed to, say, a tax audit.

The party itself was fun, but it’s interesting when you’re partying with a one-year old. First of all, you have to be careful not to hurt her feelings. You don’t want to remind her that you’re just there at her parents’ request until she’s old enough to get some actual friends.

It’s also different from a birthday party with one of your buddies. With them, you can say “Hey, remember that time on your 21st birthday when you got so drunk that you threw up?” With the baby, you’re more likely to say “Hey, remember that time when you threw up? Five minutes ago?”

Thanks Krissa.  You’re such a sweetie.

And given the coolness quotient of your CD mixes, your opinions are not to be taken lightly.  (Of course, now I have a vested interest in saying so.  But still.)

My friends and family may be surprised to see this headline.  They know I don’t follow sports, so why would I be watching the Superbowl?  In point of fact, though, it’s a liability in the corporate world to not know your way around a football season.  Sports is an automatic touchstone between people, and I’m limited because I can’t take advantage of it.

I do have the advantage of being able to discuss movies with other people, which is another important point of reference between strangers.  But I become a little too enthusiastic about them.  So, I might be in a meeting with some colleagues and a potential strategic partner:

Partner: “You know, I really like that scene at the end of ‘The Matrix’ where Neo faces off with that evil agent guy.”

Me: “Yeah, I love how that piece of newspaper blows by like a tumbleweed.  It’s a nod to the old spaghetti westerns.”

A pause.  Everyone consider this, and looks interested.  “Hmm, never thought of that.” “Interesting.” “Okay then.”

Me: “I think the best old western was ‘The Magnificent Seven.’

Everyone shrugs.

Me: “Of course, that’s a remake of Kurosawa’s ‘The Seven Samurai.’ By the way, don’t you feel as though that you’ve had enough of ‘Rashomon’ imitators?  I mean, it’s enough to make me go watch a festival of Dogma ‘95 films shot on digital video with handheld cameras.”

At this point, someone hits a red button and I’m sent hurtling into a shark tank.  You can clearly see that I need to branch out.  Therefore, I’m watching the Superbowl--and without further ado, here’s my diary of the experience.

2:05 pm.  A bunch of guys in helmets are hitting each other.
2:10 pm.  Bored beyond belief.  But suddenly excited because I remember they’re going to air a commercial for the Hulk movie, which will show the complete computer-generated monster.
2:15 pm. No Hulk commercial yet.
2:20 pm. Still a bunch of guys in helmets hitting each other.
2:22 pm. Suddenly realize that I’m living in Oakland.  Whether the Raiders win or lose, the city will become like Mad Max’s Thunderdome by nightfall.
2:23 pm. Leave house to go to Home Depot and buy materials to build Panic Room.

End of Superbowl diary.