The newest Gap commercial shows lots of beautiful people singing “Love Train.” Despite their repeated insistence that “People all over the world [should] join hands [and] start a love train,” though, the models are American-looking and 80% white. I know what they’d say if a pygmy from Cameroon tried to join in: “Oh, gross. You just go start your own love train. But first buy a cheap-ass cotton scarf.”

When I was a teenager, acne splattered my face like machine-gun fire. It appeared without warning or reason, stayed to remove whatever shred of self dignity and confidence that high school may have deigned to leave me, and then often disappeared--sometimes for months at a time. Then it returned savagely, as if to say: “You’re getting closer to legal drinking age, but you’re going to have to suffer before you get there.”

As an adult I don’t get zits very often. But when I do (as I did yesterday), they don’t arrive in their old rat-a-tat-tat style; I only get a single one. And it’s enormous. What’s more, I know that it comes from stress. Anxiety and worry congeal themselves into an imposing crimson monument, like an angrier version of the 1939 World’s Fair Dome. It has its own unique architecture. I suspect it even has its own ecosystem.

When I’m forced to wear one of these magenta medallions, I don’t worry much about ironing my clothes. I barely comb my hair. I definitely don’t bother with cologne. Because none of that will matter--I know that in my interactions with people, their unspoken thoughts will be louder than their words:

“Hey Greg, are you dropping by the pub later?”
(I’M REALLY NOT SURE WHICH ONE OF YOU I SHOULD BE TALKING TO.)

“Greg, you did a great job on that press release.”
(I WONDER HOW RUDOLPH THE REINDEER’S NOSE GOT TRAPPED IN YOUR FOREHEAD.)

“Greg, what are your plans for the weekend?”
(DOES THAT THING HAVE ITS OWN GRAVITATIONAL PULL?)

But from now on I am going to treat my glowing companions with pride and respect. They attach themselves to me because I earn them. I acquire them by moving at blinding speed. They signify that I’m pouring tons of energy in my company’s ROI white paper project. They demonstrate that I’m concentrating on buying only the best Christmas presents for my friends and family. They’re proof that I’m managing my finances to the best of my ability. Their very existence means that I’m being active, energetic, and engaged.

It is, therefore, a complete coincidence that I’ll be wearing a Mexican sombrero for the next ten days or so.

I predict the new Star Trek movie, “Nemesis,” won’t fare well at the box office. Why? Their starship viewscreens have barely advanced in the last 30 years. From Captain Kirk’s ship to the new shows, it’s just been the same boring television set.

Even now, I suspect that children are watching the show with their parents in complete bewilderment. “So let me get this straight, Dad. Their living room--”

“It’s called a ‘bridge,’ son.”

“Whatever. Their living room with a bridge is smaller than ours, they’re sitting on a bunch of IKEA furniture, and they’re all talking to a Sony plasma flat panel display. I thought you said this show was set in the future. Is that thing even HDTV compatible?”

One Trek technology I don’t look forward to is the Holodeck. I’d wait patiently in line, get to the front, and the engineer would tell me: “You can be anyone and go anywhere. The only limit is your imagination. Just tell me the details and I’ll program the computer.”

And what would happen? I’d freeze like a jackrabbit in headlights. I’d stutter, I’d stammer, and then I’d blurt out: “I want to be in Marketing, have a thinning head of hair, and drive a Honda Civic. Make sure that I snore loudly when I sleep, and that it sounds like someone putting brass tacks in a blender. And absolutely under no circumstances should I be a published novelist.” I’d walk inside the room and my “D’OH!” would echo throughout the galaxy.

I’m looking forward to the movie despite all this, but I am concerned that the Next Generation crew is getting long in the tooth. I suspect that during the climatic space battle, they won’t be running around and punching control panels. They’ll have to fire photon torpedos using the clapper.

If you live in the Bay Area and would like to hear my mellifluous tones, KQED (88.5 FM) has set the dates for my two minute bit of blather. You kinda have to get up early or stay up late to catch it, though--it airs Monday, December 9 at 6:07 a.m. and 7:37 a.m., with a repeat that evening at 11:33 p.m, and Saturday, December 14, at 7:37 a.m. Check it.

1. You hear tons about the first Noel, and absolutely nothing about the sequels. I wonder if they were really all that terrible. Were they as bad as, say, “Grease 2”?

2. The line isn’t “Across the bridge and through the woods”; it’s ”Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go.” Who in their right mind jumps into a river with what is presumably a horse-drawn carriage? I can imagine the grandmother’s reaction when the soaked, bedraggled family finally shows up on her doorstep: “Oh my goodness. What
happened to all of you?” “Oh, Dad was sucking down the hot-buttered rum again and decided to take a plunge into the rapids.”

3. If you think about it, it’s pretty rude to say “God rest ye merry gentlemen.” It’s like turning out the lights on a party that’s still in
progress. “God Rest ye merry gentleman!” “Uh, thanks, but we’re still feeling pretty merry.” “Well, but rest ye.” “No, we’re going to stay up late and scarf more spiked eggnog.” “But--” “Look, get out of our face.”

4. I don’t happen to believe there’s anything immoral about “donning now our gay apparel.” Heck, I personally own a couple of sweaters that are pretty borderline.

5. It’s strange to think that, at some point in human history, people thought that a “one horse open sleigh” was more fun to ride than a two or three horse open sleigh. People actually wanted less horsepower, not more. Whereas now we’re like, “You don’t have a V6 engine? What are you, a high school teacher?”

1. I was two names below Scott Adams when I signed the visitor’s book. I thought: “Wouldn’t it be nice to meet Scott and say something intelligent, incisive, and breathtakingingly original. Like: ‘We have your cute little Dilbert strips all over our cubicles, Mr. Adams.’”

2. I said to my escort, “I was two names under Scott Adams.” She said, “Actually, he just left in his limo.” And I thought to myself about the dichotomy of Dilbert and how the strip reflects the position of the white collar drone, yet Scott Adams tools around in his limo. He’s both proletariat and bourgeois at the same time. And this weighty philosophical treatise occupied me until I tripped on a piece of carpet.

3. My escort led me past room after room full of equipment, microphones, and computers, as well as lines of glowing
“Taping in Progress” signs. I realized that it doesn’t take that much stuff to report local news and weather. The truth dawned upon me: KQED is a front for an evil empire about the take over the world. They’re practically bursting to the seams with weapons of mass destruction.

4. After the first taping, Dan the Engineer advised me: “Careful about taking deep breaths between sentences; the tape can pick that up.” I coached myself: “More Walter Cronkite, less phone sex.”

5. During the second taping, I accidentally jostled the table. When Dan the Engineer played the tape back, you could audibly hear the noise. I said, “I think you can hear me hitting the table.” Dan the Engineer said, “Nah.” I think he’s using this version, because he fiddled with it and spliced it a little. So when you listen to the segment, you’re bound to hear a sound that reminds you of Chuck Barris’s “Gong Show.”

6. It was confirmed that my segment is an “Evergreen” segment, meaning that it’s not time sensitive. Meaning that they can save it and air it whenever they don’t have anything else. Meaning that it may well be aired this time next week, circa the year 2008.

7. No one offered me a free Big Bird lunchbox.

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.”