A strange thing happened the other day. I shouted “HEY, CLONEAID!” And three identical pitchers of red liquid came crashing through the nearest wall.

You’d think that casino employees comprise the largest workforce in Las Vegas, but no: it’s the people stand on the street corners and hand out leaflets and flyers to tourists. It looked like fun and I wanted to join them. I don’t have a variety show or strip club to promote, but I thought about just handing out scribbled words of encouragement: “You look great today!” Or maybe try candor: “Your wife seems a little perturbed. Perhaps you should be more attentive to her needs in bed.”

Vegas is great, though. The city anticipates your every need. There I was, dutifully putting quarters into the slot machine, and I suddenly had a powerful, uncontrollable yearning for a telephone shaped like Mickey Mouse. All I had to do was round the corner, and there was a shelf full of them. And later I thought to myself: “That Mickey Mouse phone was great, but I could really use one shaped like Betty Boop.” And did I have to walk more than ten yards to find one? I think you already know the answer to that.

One last thought. You know how conferences always have a heavily advertised presenter who stands in front of the attendees and addresses them? I think that when the conference is held in Vegas, this person should just stand there and recite a bunch of numbers like 16, 33, and 54.

This person would be known as the “Keno speaker.”

Me: So, I won’t be updating the site for a few days because I’ll be in Vegas.

You: That’s great, Greg! You seem like you work hard. You deserve a vacation!

Me: Well, actually, my company is sponsoring an HR Outsourcing conference. I’ll be there to meet and greet.

You: Oh.

Me: Yeah, so, anyway--

You: That’s kind of funny when you think about it. Most people go to Vegas to have a good time. But every person at this conference has to admit to their friends and loved ones that they got themselves involved in an industry where they would fly to Vegas in order to talk shop about HR outsourcing. What a pack of lose--

Me: (stony glare)

You: Oops. Sorry.

Premise: Orphaned children engage in brutal competition for the love of a rich, caring foster father.

Title: “Who’s Your Daddy?”

Emotional notes hit: Cutthroat and tense during the episodes.  At end, triumphant and voyeuristic as audience watches winner orphan go off to a life of comfort and security.  Also tragic and bittersweet as other orphans loaded into vans to be sent into the foster care system, never to be heard from again.

Addendum to above: But loser orphans get consolation prizes.  Wool socks, Pokemon pez dispensers, and assorted kitchen appliances.

Host criteria: Affordable B-list celebrity who is also well-known as a family man.

Addendum to above: Does Steve Guttenberg have children?

Loudly read the subtitles while the actors speak their dialogue. For additional effect, use an accent that’s completely different than the movie’s origin. For example, if you’re watching a movie by Almodovar, recite the subtitles with a heavy Irish brogue.

For some reason, this really gets on people’s nerves.

Containing equal parts flying blonde hair, drunken laughter, and lip gloss, the BMW

(lurching into a new lane and swinging open a passenger door, a girl’s vomit splashing into the street)

Was a technological marvel! It didn’t run on gasoline but on

Daddy’s money.

Public relations isn’t the least enjoyable part of my job, but it’s the hardest.  You wheedle reporters with phone and email pitches; you send them information; you talk them up whenever you find them.  All in an effort to convince them that spilling ink about your company will win them professional glory, Pulitzer Prizes, and eternal youth.

So I was amazed when I received an email from a reporter who just wanted to drop the office.  And ask some questions.  And talk.  She was new to the business beat, and wanted to get a sense of the territory.

You mean, you’re not working on a story that’s due last week?  (No.)

You mean, you’re not just getting a quote to show your editor you’ve been working?  (No.)

You mean, you’re not investigating a rumor about my CEO and pictures of wild goats?  (No.)

And then it struck me.  This is the PR equivalent of being asked to the prom. I sprang into action:

Rent the limo.  (Reserve a conference room.)

Buy a corsage.  (Gather sales collateral and media kits.)

Get a tux.  (Don’t wear jeans.)

Brag to the friends.  (Inform the executives.)

But at the appointed meeting time, she didn’t appear.  I paced my cube.  Checked my watch.  Drank coffee.  And then the recriminations began.  Did she simply schedule the meeting for the wrong time, or:

Was she seeing someone else?  (Like one of our competitors.)

Did she decide I wasn’t good enough for her?  (And went with one of our competitors.)

Was I just a stepping stone?  (To one of our competitors.)

But here the analogy breaks down.  Because when you’re actually stood up on prom night, you have to carefully think about whether calling will make you look uncool.  In PR, you can simply leave a message: “We seemed to have missed each other this morning.  Feel free to give me a call to reschedule, or if it’s more convenient I can simply tell you a few things about my company over the phone.”

Just be sure you say that.  Rather than: “Hi...look, I don’t want to pressure you, and I know we don’t know each other that well. But I have real feelings for you.  I just want you to know that I think we could have something special--even if you still want to keep seeing other companies.”

How the hell did T’Pau’s “Heart and Soul” make it into VH-1’s “Top 100 One Hit Wonders,” but “Walk the Dinosaur” by Was (Not Was) didn’t? “Dinosaur” is one of the all-time great dance songs. It’s got a killer hook, surreal lyrics, and a blistering saxophone solo. T’Pau, on the other hand? “Give me a little bit of heart and soul.” Oh, I can definitely help you out with your heart, you talentless late ‘80s hack. Just give me a clear path to your ribcage.

On an unrelated note, my New Year’s resolution is to not take pop culture so seriously.

When I moved to my new apartment in June, I began the search that all people in new locations dread: find a new and trustworthy barber.  I chose Lily at random and walked into her place one afternoon.  Her voice slurred just slightly when she talked, almost as if there were a lag while she connected thought to speech.  Dirty-blonde hair clumped around her shoulders like tumbleweeds.  She giggled a lot.

Her hands didn’t feel quite right on my head.  Usually you expect a smooth gliding of fingers, a feeing of training and experience.  You want to believe those fingers can knit air.  Lily’s touch was heavier and harder.  I found myself straining to watch the mirror, trying to track the geometric shapes she made with scissors, razor, and brush.

But I liked her chit-chatting skills.  After the obligatory resume spiel ("What do you do when you do that thing you do?"), she talked about where to hike and fish and swim in the East Bay.  She and her husband had lived in Oakland for years, and went outdoors almost every weekend.

Lily began talking about age discrimination in her industry.  She explained that she was gradually losing the young customers to Supercuts.  I expressed surprise, because Supercuts, to me, is like where sheep go to get fleeced: “You!  Come over here!” “BAAAAHH!” (BBZZZZZ) “Thank you, next!” “BAAAAHH!” (BBZZZZZ) “Next!”

She agreed, but said it was all about the sex: “They hire young, pretty girls to bring in the clientele and they don’t have to know a pair of scissors from a garden rake.  All the college guys go there and come out looking like abstract art, but they’re horny and happy.” She admitted, “I tried to get a job at Supercuts a while ago, but I’m too far past my prime.  Of course, they won’t say that to you.  It’s always ‘All stations are full up now, sweetie.’”

I also surprised to learned that she was beginning to suffer from arthritis in her hands and arms.  Not surprised in terms of the haircut I was receiving, because it actually explained a lot.  But I was amazed that she would admit this to a patient who was, as it were, under the knife.

But still--at the end of both the haircut and the energetic conversation--I wasn’t horrified by what I saw in the mirror.  I wasn’t thrilled, either.  It was...okay.  Nothing special and nothing mortifying.

So eight weeks later, I returned to Lily.  To my surprise, she didn’t remember me at all.  I tip well on cuts, and our conversation was long and unforced.  (Often it’s “So, what do you do?” “I’m in Marketing.” “Ahhh, do you work the checkout register or do you bag the groceries?") I also noticed that although I had phoned and made an appointment, there was no one else in the place.  I caught a glance at Lily’s appointment book, and saw a few names scribbled in for later in the day but nothing directly either before or after me.

Because she didn’t remember me, our conversation was a little “Groundhog Day"-ish.  I recited my resume again.  We didn’t discuss sex discrimination this time, but she did talk about favorite spots in the East Bay.  I also thought that her hands seemed even harder and heavier than before.  They grasped at my hair, as though clambering for a handhold.

Two months later I turned up the street, not sure whether I was going to Lily’s.  A block before I reached her place, I guiltily realized that I wasn’t stopping.  How had her hands changed in the intervening two months?  They could be like oven mitts.  Like cudgels.  Like brick bats.  I wanted fingers that could knit air. 

I promised myself at least one thing--I wouldn’t turn and look.

And of course I did.  (Hi, Lot’s wife.  How you doing, Orpheus.) Lily was sitting in one of the chairs, her feet propped up on the footstand.  She was reading the newspaper.  No one was waiting for a cut.  She was alone.

You know you’re getting on in years when the slang starts to sound unfamiliar to you.

There’s a nice girl in New York who sometimes reads my blog.  When something or someone pleases her, she says “That rocked my face.” Now, my generation is familiar with the notion of a full-body rocking, i.e. “That rocked my world.” The popularization of said term can perhaps be traced back to the musical stylings of Queen, with their anthemic classic “We Will Rock You.” (That was actually my brother’s generation, not mine, but close enough.)

But now this newer generation has detached the rocking from its full-body usage and now singles out various body parts, i.e. the rocking of the face.  Again, the meaning is clear; it’s a compliment.  But I can’t help but fall prey to a nagging feeling of guilt: “There’s a nice girl who reads my blog and in return I’ve somehow managed to dislocate her jaw.”

Then there’s this whole notion of “mad skillz,” meant to suggest an array of highly tuned personal abilities or talents.  Nonetheless, I can’t help but think that someone with mad skillz is either
- A contributor in an editorial, creative, or administrative capacity to the satirical publication Mad Magazine, or
- A cannibal who ate someone’s brain and contracted laughing disease.

“How’s your history paper going?

“Great!  I’ve got mad skillz!”

“Jesus, if you were hungry, you could have just said so--I’ve got stuff in the kitchen.  You didn’t have to eat someone.”

Lest you think that I’m just a grumpy gus, let me reassure you--you don’t know the half of it.  I also refuse to eat in a coffee shop that spells “coffee” with the letter “k.” And also?  If you see a sign that says something like “Ye Olde (Antique/Toffee/Soap etc.) Shoppe,” you can replace the word “Olde” with “Suckworthy” and you’ve got yourself a pretty good reading of that establishment.

Yesterday I went on a hike that began at a scenic spot called “Inspiration Point.”

There’s no more uninspired name for a scenic spot than “Inspiration Point.”

My friend was lending me some books she thought I’d like to read, and she handed me one saying “This is good.” I studied it for a few moments, flipped it over, and handed it back to her: “I can’t read this.  It’s about incest.”

She stared at me.  “How did you know?”

I said, “Look at the telltale details.  The cover design is a mix of pretentious yellow and brown tones, kind of like a mutant hybrid of the ‘Oprah’s Book Club’ logo and the Vintage Contemporary series.  Then there’s the picture--a still, silent beach sunset.  But the copy on the back clinches it.  ‘The Walker family is steeped in secrets.’ I don’t need to read another word; it’s about incest.

“And I’m sick of books about incest.  I am not in favor of incest, to the point that I’m even willing to make a political stand and say ‘I don’t like incest.’ But does every novel about contemporary families, written in overwrought, Iowa Masters of Fine Arts program prose, have to discuss the subject to death?  Didn’t we finish atoning for the silence of the ‘50s sometime back during the Reagan administration?”

She put away the book, and then she put away another one:  “Well then, you’re not going to like this one either.”

Addendum:
If I weren’t so annoyed with this literary trend I could so jump on the bandwagon with my own confessional.  When I was seven years old, my friend Kevin and I snuck into the bathroom while his sister was taking a shower.  She was, oh, maybe thirteen, or so, and he lifted up the shower curtain and we hightailed it into the living room and giggled maniacally.

This incident may not sound traumatic or insightful enough to carry the weight of a novel, but it would work if I tweaked a few details.  For example, the sister would have to collapse into a pool of anguished sobs, rather than what actually happened.  Which was her wrapping a towel around herself, marching into the living room, and slapping Kevin on the back of the head: “You are such a little fartknocker.”

“Perils insured” against include “aircraft, self-propelled missiles, and spacecraft.”

With this unexpected security in my back pocket, I hereby issue a challenge to the Battlestar Galactica.  Bring it, you bunch of rag-tag fleeting, cylon baiting, Earth-seeking namby pambies.

“Bush to Unveil Plan for Revival.”

I sure the heck hope he’s talking about the economy, and not, say, the career of Daryl Hall and John Oates.

Number of hours I had nothing important to do: 5
Number of cocktail makers previously received as housewarming gift: 1
Number of months said maker had been left relatively unused: 6
Number of martini glasses won over New Year’s: 6
Number of drinks I decided to make on Sunday: 4 (regular martini, apple martini, manhattan, black russian)
Number of drinks I intended to consume: 2
Number of drinks I intended to give to roommate: 2
Roommate’s appreciation of cool cocktail maker and martini glasses, on scale of 1 to 10: 10
Roommate’s appreciation of the taste of alcohol in any given form, on scale of 1 to 10: 1
Drinks actually consumed by roommate: 0
Deviation from plan, in terms of unconsumed drinks: 2
Drinks consumed by me as a consequence: 4
Number of hours spent somewhat inebriated: 3
Number of hours spent watching bad LeeLee Sobieski movies on HBO: 3